


Gonna Do Bad Things With You

by SashaDistan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (season 8 doesn't exist though obvs), Anal Sex, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Butt Plugs, Cockwarming, Comeplay, Extremely Dubious Consent, Fluff and Smut, Friends in space, Intracrual Sex, Just the Tip, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, Pre-Kerberos Mission, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Somnophilia, Top Keith (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron), Wet & Messy, mating instincts, takes place from pre-kerb until the end of s2... ish.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:35:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26194981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SashaDistan/pseuds/SashaDistan
Summary: Prompt 59: Keith has a bad habit of having sex with Shiro while he's asleep.Keith can't help it.He wakes up cold and out of his bed and already on the way to Shiro's quarters.And Shiro has always maintained Keith is welcome in his space.And so Keith goes.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 46
Kudos: 229
Collections: Sheith Prompt Party 2020





	Gonna Do Bad Things With You

**Author's Note:**

> It's somno, and by default there are STRONG non/dub con elements. But they're both super into it. I promise you are guaranteed a happy ending and many, many feelings.  
> Also tons of smut.

It is cold at night in the Garrison dormitories, and considering the Garrison is a highly advanced, multi-billion-credit corporation who regularly send people into space, and keeps a permanent base on the moon, it is frustrating that they cannot even keep the heat on in the Cadet sleeping quarters. It borders on an insult that they can install climate control on Mars, and maintain a space station in orbit around one of the moons of Jupiter, but not make the facilities on Earth even vaguely palatable.

Keith has never minded the cold before, useful for a kid who spent most of his free time outside and out of the way; but lately he finds himself waking at night shivering.

The night he first wakes up outside his dorm room is a surprise and a shock in the worst way, because despite half a dozen failed foster families and a stint in a group home, Keith has never been one for sleepwalking. He comes to with his forehead resting against a very familiar section of corridor, blurred vision blinking into focus on an orange name plate next to the nearest sliding door.

_T. Shirogane, CDR._

Keith is outside Shiro’s quarters, in nondescript but rather worn pyjamas, with sleep-ruined hair and drool on his chin. His heart beats so hard in his chest that Keith wonders if someone will hear it, and flees back towards the dorms. It is only later as dawn breaks and he pretends to wake up all over again, that Keith realises it wasn’t until he got back to his own bed that he became cold.

*

Soon, arriving into consciousness to find himself upright and not where he left himself sleeping, becomes Keith’s new normal. Each time, it only takes a few heartbeats for him to locate himself as being somewhere on the familiar winding route between his dormitory and Shiro’s quarters. How he’s never been picked up by a security guard he doesn’t know, but regardless of how far Keith’s gotten before he wakes up, he always keeps going.

Every night, he stands outside Shiro’s apartment, facing the door and the little orange nameplate, breathing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He has to, curling his fingers tight and forcing himself to loosen them again, shaking out the twitches and tics along his arm, because otherwise he knows he’ll give in. Keith is a lot of things – a bit weird, a loner by nature, rebellious, and apparently a gifted pilot on anything with an engine – but he’s not desperate enough to jerk off in a Garrison corridor.

It’s not the usual morning-wood kind of horniness either. That’s annoying, but at least familiar, because living without a shred of actual private space for most of his life does not afford him the luxury of languid masturbatory sessions. This is different, and it’s only through a concerted force of willpower that Keith has managed to resist the eager pulse of his cock. He repeats Shiro’s mantra – _patience yields focus_ – under his breath until they are the only words he knows.

It works each time, and eventually, Keith is able to make it back to his own bed, locking his fingers behind his head, forcefully ignoring the raging heat under his skin even whilst the rest of his body shivers.

*

It works until it doesn’t.

Keith stands in front of Shiro’s door at some godawful hour of the morning when absolutely no one is up and awake, trying to measure his breathes, making a fist with his left hand, vibrating as he resists the flame-hot thunder of his pulse. And he can think of nothing but Shiro.

Shiro is his best friend, his mentor too. And though Keith loves having Shiro’s eyes on him as he completes drills, takes notes in lectures, and aces trials in the simulators, he _lives_ for the time they spend together outside of their official Garrison approved relationship. Earlier, Shiro took him on a walking tour of some of the older ships in the Garrison’s hangers – the ones not on loan to the Space Exploration Museum. For Keith, the thrill he’d felt the first time Shiro had shown him Calypso was tripled by the soft and familiar way Shiro smiled. And by the big, firm hand which had boosted him up the rungs so he could hang onto the outside of one of the retired Ganymede Space Station Modules, peering through the multi-layered plexiglass porthole.

Shiro’s smile and touch, and that reassuring grip on his shoulder which spans all the way from his collarbone to the ball-joint, are all Keith can think of as he stands a scant few millimetres from Shiro’s front door.

If anyone came by now, Keith would have absolutely zero reasonable excuse to be here, and even less so for being obviously hard in his boxers. After he realised the sleep walking wasn’t going away anytime soon, Keith bought sweats to sleep in, and they promptly got eaten by the laundry service. Black boxer shorts and a tank top are Keith’s only defence, and they are as flimsy as his excuses.

He blinks, swaying on the spot, the inside of his eyelids are painted with Shiro’s smiling eyes and the shape of his pretty mouth saying Keith’s name, and Keith reaches out to steady himself against the door frame. But he’s tired, horny, and distracted, and his hand lands on the palm scanner.

Which shouldn’t be a problem. It’s three in the godsdamn morning, and Shiro’s not the kind of guy who leaves his door unlocked at night. But the scanner flashes from orange to green under his hand, and produces a soft chirp which sounds deafening in the nocturnal silence of the hallway.

Keith gapes as the door slides open a couple of inches, snatching his hand back like he’s been burned. He stares at the gap, and even though he knows it’s impossible, he swears he can already smell the scent of Shiro’s cologne; cedarwood and white musk. Instantly Keith feels his breathing deepen, calming his nerves. It’s almost embarrassing to realise he’s conditioned his response just to the way his best friend smells.

‘ _You’re always welcome here Keith,’ Shiro had said to him, hand warm and soothing on his shoulder, lips curled in a soft smile, as Keith had fought against all the frustrations of being made to fit into the structure of the Galaxy Garrison. ‘You can always come to me. With anything.’_

Shiro trusts him. Shiro is too trusting, because Keith doubts this was what he meant. _This_ being Keith sliding through the partly open door, closing it almost silently behind him, and pacing through Shiro’s quarters on the balls of his feet like a stalking cat.

It doesn’t feel as wrong as it probably should, and Keith allows his fingers to trail over the back of the little orange bar stool. Its where he sits and does his homework assignments when the library and study hall are too busy – which is always – working in little bursts in-between watching Shiro move around his little galley kitchen. Shiro makes ramen-with-extras for him during long study sessions, and Matt often joins them with his PADD and some kind of half-finished science experiment. Keith finds himself smiling softly as he passes through the rest of the living space, because all the memories of the inside of Shiro’s quarters are happy ones, even the ones where advanced theoretical calculus was getting the better of him.

Shiro’s bedroom is not new territory either, because Shiro’s quarters only has an ensuite, so Keith’s traipsed back and forth through there plenty of times. But he’s never allowed himself to linger, even if Shiro’s bed is always militarily precise in its crispness, the corners square enough to use as an example isometric diagram.

But now he stands in the doorway and drinks down the scent of Shiro. The sweetly, spicy notes of his cologne have died out and given way to the woodier undertones, but it’s not what pulls Keith’s focus. Underneath it all he can smell Shiro, the man himself, all clean and recently showered, simple and perfect and pure. It makes Keith want to groan. Keith takes a step forward and allows himself the luxury of looking at his best friend.

Shiro is spread out over the double bed like he’s used to not having to share his space. Keith doesn’t know the particulars, but he knows someone as talented, handsome, and perfect as the Golden Boy must have lovers. One look though tells Keith whoever they are, they don’t get invited to stay, and his chest swells with pleasure and pride at the thought. It is obviously not cold in Shiro’s quarters, because despite the blankets being ruched over his legs, the upper part of the quilt is wrapped securely in Shiro’s arms, snuggled up against the man’s bare broad chest.

Shiro sleeps in loose cotton boxer shorts, and there is a hint of dark shadow between the hem of the leg hole and his skin, which forces Keith to make an involuntary noise of need. Shiro doesn’t move as Keith claps a hand over his mouth, his breathing still long and low and deep, lost in sleep. Keith waits, holding his breath, but when nothing changes, he lets himself relax again, and treads closer.

Before he knows it, he’s standing at the foot of the bed, staring up at the length of his best friend and long-time crush, and with every breath he can feel his cock throbbing almost painfully in his underwear. Keith gazes at Shiro, at the slow rise and fall of his ribs, the girth of his arms wrapped around the comforter, the soft sweep of his eyelashes sooty and dark against his cheek, and he wants.

Keith would give anything to replace the wadded bedding in Shiro’s arms and slide himself along the lines of those perfectly sculpted thighs. He swallows, his throat dry at the thought, even as his mouth waters. He fixes his gaze on the cut lines of Shiro’s abs as they vanish into the elastic of his underwear. He wants, and his cock agrees, twitching forcefully from its position trapped against his hip.

No one has ever been as sexy as Shiro is sleeping.

Before Keith really comprehends what he’s doing, he’s got his hand down the front of his boxers, fingers closing around the shaft of his cock as he pulls himself out. He knows he shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t, but already he’s hot and so hard it almost hurts. The pulsating need which has driven him here almost every night for the past month is finally quiet; as though Keith standing over Shiro’s sleeping form with his cock in his hand, is exactly where he’s supposed to be. Keith groans silently on a shaky exhale, and allows himself to draw the loose curl of his fist up the whole of his length.

It’s been a while since he last touched himself without the pressure to be both fast and secretive. Shiro is _right there_ , but the man is sleeping, lost in that deep and dreamless place of utter relaxation, and Keith isn’t worried that his eyes might flicker open any moment. Keith knows he still has to be silent, but that’s natural for him – always has been – and Keith wishes everyone in his dorm was as well practised at swallowing their moans.

He plays with the head of his cock, just using thumb and two fingers to swirl his foreskin over the glans, squeezing sporadically as his dick twitches in time with his pulse, using his right hand to press over his chest under his shirt. The pressure of his heartbeat against his palm is grounding, even as a clear drop of precome forms at the tip of his cock, and Keith swipes it with his palm before it can drip, smearing the wetness down his length. He repeats the motion again and again, still touching himself only a little, everything smooth and slow, the only noise is the squelch of the wetness between flesh and fingers.

The whole time, he keeps his gaze on Shiro, tracking over his body, memorizing each little detail. The little dusting of hair over the tops of his thighs, the soft dip of his spine where it vanishes into his boxers, the unconscious slackness of his lips as he breathes in his sleep. Keith can’t help but wonder how warm he is, what the swell of Shiro’s pec would feel like under his palm, how Shiro’s breath might catch if Keith stroked over the soft bulge of his cock. The thought sends a jolt up his spine, and suddenly just teasing himself is no longer enough. He wants to know what Shiro looks likes naked, wants to feel the weight of his friend’s cock in his palm, wants to watch Shiro shiver and blush when Keith calls him something _other_ than his name.

Keith pants silently, his hips moving on auto-pilot, fucking into the curl of his fist as his other hand travels from his chest down to his crotch. Keith circles the base of his cock, feeling his pulse hammering hard there too, then dips to cup his balls as he strokes himself.

He wants.

Shiro shifts unconsciously, a tiny movement and gather of his arms, and huffs the softest of breaths. Keith feels it against his cheek and jaw, as though they are pressed together skin to skin, and bites hard into his lower lip as he comes. His dick jerks in his grasp, hot and hard as he rolls the foreskin forward with the tug of his hand, catching the first spurt of his orgasm before it can fall. He wants to press into the sensitive heat behind his ballsack, but he needs both hands if he’s not going to leave evidence of his transgressions in Shiro’s room.

He closes his hand around the head of his cock, still jacking himself furiously with his other fist, coming in what feels like endless strokes, as his vision blurs at the edges with the force. It’s almost nothing like a normal orgasm, reaching higher and pulling him deeper than any furtive and hasty wank has ever done before. Keith’s breathing is ragged and shallow and his skin feels like it’s on fire and he is physically incapable of tearing his eyes off Shiro’s sleeping form even as his orgasm drains out of him.

For a long time afterwards – more than minutes, less than hours – Keith just stands there, hands cupping his slowly softening dick, fingers tacky and warm with release, vision hazy around the edges as he pants in near silence. Eventually, blinking back to reality and the pins and needles in his feet from standing still for so long, Keith tucks himself back into his boxers, wiping his hands over the fabric covering his hips. He’s going to have to wash them out anyway before they can go in the laundry bag. And then his freshly cleared vision catches and zooms in on the soft white fabric of Shiro’s comforter, where a single drip and splash of his orgasm has marked and dried already.

Fuck.

There is, literally and figuratively, nothing Keith can do about it now, not without waking Shiro and admitting to everything that’s just transpired. And he doesn’t want to do that, because Shiro’s morning routine starts early, his days run late, and the man deserves all of the good sleep he can get. Keith has no right to wake him.

He takes a deep, still slightly shaky breath, inhaling the clean, softly woodsy scent of his best friend and secret crush, before tearing his eyes away from the gorgeous sensory feast which is Shiro sleeping without a care in the world.

Keith leaves just like he arrived – silently and unobserved – hoping that Shiro won’t notice the stain on the very far edge of his bed come laundry day.

*

“Congratulations, Shiro!”

“Hey Keith… thanks.”

Shiro’s smile is broad and bright, and the hand which squeezes Keith’s shoulder is big and warm. Of all the people who have wished Shiro well since the announcement – and there have been many Keith knows – not one of them has received a reaction like the one Shiro gives to Keith now. The arm which slings around the back of Keith’s neck is the most welcome weight, and he doesn't even bother not to lean into the contact for several long heartbeats. Shiro doesn’t say anything and doesn’t appear to notice; that’s just how they are with each other.

“What about me?” Matt demands as he jogs up, gaze fixed on them to avoid the milling crowds of well-wishers who have suddenly appeared in this corridor for no discernible reason. “I am going to Kerberos too, y’know.”

“Congratulations Matt,” Keith returns in a deadpan tone. Matt rolls his eyes hard, but Keith grins up at Shiro instead. “They’re gonna let you take a tour of the ship, right?”

“Yes.” Shiro’s smile is smaller now, but no less bright, and it’s all for Keith. “Don’t worry buddy, I’ll take you along with me.”

*

 _Buddy_ , Keith thinks, _Buddy is how you say ‘baby’ in public_. Especially when you say it like that, standing too close to a friend to be just friendly, pulling them into your side with a soft grin and biceps like steel. Keith groans silently through parched lips, staring at that same arm where it now lays flung across Shiro’s sheets.

It’s warmer tonight, though Keith swears his dorm room is colder than the walk-in fridge in the commissary, and Shiro is sleeping on his front, blankets kicked off into a tangle, one arm vanishing under the pillow, underneath his head. The view is perfect: Keith is grateful for his near photographic memory as he strokes himself in long languid pulls, caressing Shiro with his eyes.

Shiro’s arse is two perfect plush mounds squeezed inside his underwear – these are snug little boxer briefs – no gaping leg holes and almost nothing left to the imagination. But Keith imagines anyway. He imagines the way Shiro’s cheeks would feel under his hand, how firm they would be if he sank his fingers in, how hot the cleft between is, should he ease them apart with his thumbs and just look at Shiro’s perfect intimate spaces.

Keith thought, or maybe hoped, that after the first time he’d jerked off standing at the foot of Shiro’s bed in the dead of night, that some switch would be flipped and he would no longer feel the need.

He was wrong.

The only change has been that now Keith no longer sleepwalks part of the way to Shiro’s door, but simply wakes like clockwork in the chill silence of oh-three-hundred hours, more nights than not, and gets up to head to Shiro’s quarters of his own volition. He is conscious and aware, but helpless to resist the pull. He’s started giving nightly thanks that Shiro’s apartment and his dormitory are at least in the same building. But Keith knows he would travel the entire campus if he had to. He has to come here and see Shiro, it’s not a choice. Not any more. Quite possibly it never was.

Keith is hard and hot, slick in his fist as he pumps himself to the sight of Shiro sleeping, but he aches deep in the pit of his stomach, because the longed-for relief which usually comes sweeping over him never materialises. He tries to draw it out, tracing his gaze in now-familiar patterns over the long curves of Shiro’s legs, the swell of his arse, the beautiful dip of his spine and the little dimples there.

Shiro puts his hand there on Keith.

Keith wants to return the gesture. He wants.

He’s half completed the movement before he can even think about the relative stupidity of _leaning over_ Shiro with his cock out and the desire to come at the forefront of his mind. Keith knows what he’s doing is wrong. He knows it crosses so many boundaries of their friendship and of their professional mentoring relationship, but he also knows there’s nothing he can do to stop himself. Keith takes a breath as he moves around to the side of Shiro’s bed on silent feet, inhaling a deep hit of Shiro’s scent, and tucks himself back into his boxers. He cannot risk leaving evidence, not like this.

Instantly he returns to palming himself through his underwear, knowing that the fabric will be damp within minutes with the way he’s leaking, and reaches forward with his right hand toward Shiro. The moment before his hand makes contact, Keith pauses.

Is he really going to do this? Really touch Shiro whilst he sleeps, all whilst stroking himself?

The second the thought is out Keith knows that he will. He has to. The need is like a fire burning under his skin, scorching his nerve endings and leaving him raw and desperate. He has to touch Shiro. But he needs to not wake him.

Carefully, oh so carefully, Keith bends at the knees and lays his hand – the whole thing – on the soft hollow of Shiro's lower back. He doesn’t do it lightly, he doesn’t want to tickle his friend into wakefulness, nor is it a slap. Just a deliberate touch, firm and smooth.

Shiro’s skin is like nothing Keith's ever felt. So smooth, as to be like silk, but creamy and warm and supple under his fingers. He presses with one fingertip, staring entranced at the dipped impression this creates in the muscles of Shiro's back. Awake, he doubts Shiro would ever be this soft, too much weight and tension from his duties, his reputation, and his insane workout schedule to allow him to relax fully. But like this, unconscious, everything about Shiro is soft, innocent in the way sleeping forms are regardless of their waking personalities, pure, and all for Keith to enjoy.

Slowly, each movement taking an age, Keith slides his hand all the way over Shiro’s spine, finger tips brushing the opposite curve of his waist, keeping the action steady and memorizing the textures of Shiro’s muscles underneath his skin. He never wants to let go.

Keith flicks his eyes back up to the quarter profile of Shiro's face, but his best friend is asleep, just as he had been before the touch, lashes dark against his cheek, lips parted softly. The deep shadows between them make Keith want to touch more. Touch everything. He creeps his hand over the plane of Shiro’s lower back, touching up to his ribcage before running his hand down over the covered mound of Shiro’s arse to cup around the girth of his thigh. The skin here is even finer, and Keith feels his breath begin to stutter as he rubs at his cockhead through his already ruined underwear. His hand moves back almost of its own accord, seeking out the things Keith knows he really wants without waiting for his brain to provide permission. He squeezes one of Shiro’s cheeks through his soft cotton boxers, watching and feeling the bounce as he lets go, shuddering at the sight.

Then, feeling infinitely brave, Keith slides the tip of one finger beneath the tight elastic waistband of Shiro’s underwear. They are so well fitted that he can barely see anything, but the mere idea of being here – touching flesh Shiro doesn’t even leave exposed when he is alone and safe in his own quarters, gives Keith a jolt of heady power. He shivers, his whole body tense, and presses a hand over his cloth-covered cock as he begins to come. The texture of his fingers touching Shiro is all he can think about. The entire world reduced to this single sensation as he thrusts into his palm, soiling his boxers and coating his own cock with his emission.

Leaving Shiro is hard then, taking back his hand and straightening his spine, thankful that at least there isn’t a single drop of his seed staining Shiro’s perfect body or perfect bed. Keith stands by Shiro's bedside – a listless, horny gargoyle watching over him – until Shiro shifts and sighs, half rolling with his comforter in his arms as he wraps one impossibly beautiful long leg over it. The little huff of breath becomes absorbed into Keith’s psyche. He burns to hear it again.

Keith takes a long, last look at Shiro then straightens his sleep shirt and removes himself back into the Garrison hallway. By the time he returns to his dormitory, his boxers are practically stuck to his crotch, and all his extremities are cold. But his mind is quiet, finally, and Keith doesn’t bother to clean up before he slips into his own bed and curls up for a handful of hours of the best sleep ever.

*

“One more set, Spitfire.”

“Shiro… please…” Keith wants to make a pathetic noise and give up, because trying to match Shiro’s workout regime – in sets and exercises if not weights because he’s not that much of masochist – makes him feel like he wants to die. But Shiro is gazing down at him over the top of the barbell, grinning broadly, his ridiculously beautiful shoulders on full display in a sleeveless tank top which has more than half the gym staring and salivating. Keith knows that would be him too, except that the only thing greater than his thirst is his pride, and he wouldn’t be caught dead drooling over Shiro in public.

In private, well, that’s just between Keith and his left hand.

Keith takes up the barbell again, Shiro's fingers cupping underneath to make sure that for all his bravado, Keith actually is OK to hold and lift it without crushing his own throat. He adjusts his grip and raises the weights straight up.

Shiro’s smile, soft and small and bright like a diamond, is totally worth it. He would cross the universe for that smile.

“You’re gonna be so stacked by the time Matt and I get back, Keith. Just look at those biceps.”

Shiro softens the blow of the reminder that he and Matt are leaving in a month. It is Shiro’s dream, to fly further and faster than anyone has done before, and as crushed as Keith feels to have to say goodbye to his friend, he could never hold Shiro back or make him feel guilty for wanting to go in the first place. Shiro’s going to touch the stars, right at the edge of the solar system, and next time, Keith is going to join him.

“I’m never going to be…” Keith lets the end of his sentence trail off as he focuses on completing his set in good form, tracking the rise and swell of Shiro’s ample pecs as the man counts under his breath. He racks the bar when he finishes, rolling his spine to sit up and breathe deeply. “I’m never going to be built like you though, Shiro.”

Shiro preens. Godsdamn actually preens, his chest swelling and shoulders squaring up with Keith’s compliment, smile tugging at his mouth. Keith is glad he’s sitting, because he thinks he might sway on the spot otherwise, considering that all the blood in his body has travelled simultaneously to his crotch.

“You don’t need to be, Keith.” Shiro’s voice is soft and warm when he speaks. “You’re a different body type. I mean, look at you.”

Shiro makes a gesture for him to stand, but Keith’s barely transferred his weight to the balls of his feet when his friend wraps big fingers around his wrist and hauls him upright. Only a well-practised habit of utter silence keeps Keith from squeaking in shock as he finds himself standing in front of Shiro. He’s practically plastered with his spine to Shiro’s broad chest, attention being directed at their reflection in one of the floor to ceiling mirrors which line the Garrison gym.

Gods, Shiro makes him looking fucking tiny, and an irrational part of Keith almost hates that, despite the warmth and hardness of Shiro against him making him stir in his underwear.

“Look, see.” and Shiro is tugging his shirt to the side, bunching the material in his fist to show off the slender lines of Keith's torso and Keith wants to die. “You’re so lithe and compact. You won’t need all the extra bulk to be just as strong as me.” Shiro is smiling over his shoulder, his grey eyes dancing. Keith feels his skin heat. “Though you might still need a few more sessions if you want to beat me in an actual race…”

Keith knows if they stay touching like this for much longer his trapped erection is going to become obvious enough to be seen in their reflection. He steps away, and wonders if the soft brush of Shiro’s fingers over his wrist as he’s released is just wishful thinking. He finds his breath coming out in a hot rush of excitement when he sees Shiro’s smile up close.

“Can we take the hoverbikes out tonight?” Already his palms itch for the feel of the grips beneath his fingers, his thighs tingle in a remembered echo of the engine’s vibrations under him.

Shiro’s grin broadens.

“Did my protégé just come out top of his class in the latest advanced aerodynamics quiz?” Shiro’s grins quirks up at one side, half a chuckle in his words. “Atta boy, Spitfire. Ninety three percent. I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Shiro.”

Shiro’s hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing, the pad of his thumb rubbing the side of Keith’s neck. It’s casually devastating in all the best ways.

“Now let’s finish up with abs – get me the black medicine ball and you can use the purple one? If you can hold your plank for a full five minutes I’ll take you for burgers and shakes after our ride.”

Keith can’t resist the happy growl of pleasure he makes as he crosses the gym mats to fetch the spherical weights, because as always, Shiro makes a challenge sound so fucking enticing.

*

Keith palms the door open, his cock stirring at the soft chirrup from the scanner which approves his palm print as someone who is trusted to enter Shiro’s quarters, and slips inside in total silence. Just like every time, he pauses just inside the door, head cocked and breath still, waiting and listening for any sound or sign of movement. And just like every other time, there is nothing. The apartment smells of Shiro’s cedarwood cologne and the warming leather scent of his jacket, slung over the stool nearest the door, the one Keith normally sits in to do his homework.

It was in fact, the one Keith was sitting in six hours previously as he filled in his final application and test forms in order to be considered as a co-pilot on his Cadet class’s upcoming trip to the Lunar base. They’ll all get the chance to fly whilst they were up there for a fortnight, but Keith wants to be in the cockpit when they break atmo from earth. He knows his scores are good enough – there are none better – but Shiro won’t be around to fight his case if there are last minute contentions and it makes Keith nervous. Better to have the form in early, before the Kerberos launch in ten days’ time. But Shiro hasn’t left his quarters since bidding Keith goodnight. He was already dressed down in his sweats with the hole in the knee, his hair ruffled from dragging his fingers through his usually perfectly coiffed bangs. There was no need for him to move his jacket.

Keith pauses, fingers skating over the soft leather, dragging the blunt edge of his nail over the ridged shoulder seams. Without thinking he bends and presses his face to the material, just where it would stretch over Shiro’s shoulder blades. The jacket is warm under his cheek, a sense memory of Shiro wearing it, of the hug Keith got to give him the one time they rode together on the same hoverbike. It wasn’t arousing then – just special, wonderful to have someone who cared that Keith was happy and safe, exciting too – but now it makes him ache somewhere lower than just his heart. Keith takes a second, deep breath and strokes the jacket as he straightens up, heading for Shiro’s bedroom.

What greets him there is different from the sights which he has seen before. Shiro is asleep, true enough, but the covers are twisted up in his arms, his long legs exposed and artfully splayed, and he is most decided naked. For a moment Keith feels a rush of panic and cold horror that Shiro called someone over to have sex after Keith left, but there are no other dents in the mattress or the pillows, no randomly shed clothes. Shiro’s sweats with the hole in the knee are neatly and precisely folded on the chair in the corner, and there’s no scent of another person here. Just Shiro, his natural aroma muskier and tangy like Keith imagines the ocean might smell like. And then Keith blinks.

There are tissues on the bed.

Not many, but a crumpled handful of soft paper just discarded on the mattress beside him, like Shiro couldn’t even be bothered to toss them into the little trash can in the bathroom, not caring enough to knock them on the floor even, so that his bed would be neat. Keith – who hasn’t slept alone in a room in years – almost vibrates with the indulgent apathy. He wants the luxury of time and space to himself too, to not give a damn where he leaves his evidence. And then Shiro shifts on the bed, rolling onto his back with his arm flung wide across the mattress toward Keith, and Keith realises where he _can_ leave his evidence.

The mattress dips beneath his weight, but Shiro neither moves nor stirs, and Keith settles himself on the tucked-up curl of his leg, other braced on the floor, as he leans over his friend.

Shiro is a sight to behold, even if the sheet still hides much of him from view, and Keith starts as he always does, by tracing his eyes over each and every visible curve of Shiro’s body, lingering in his favourite places whilst his cock twitches untouched in his underwear. He doesn’t produce quite as much slippery precome as he did when this first started months ago, enough to jerk off with but not so much that he soaks through his underwear before he’s even got a hand on himself. This time though, he doesn’t need to come in his boxers.

Keith scoops up the tissues from the mattress as he yanks down the front of his boxers, his over excited dick trying to slap him in the stomach as he does so. Keith breathes deep but silently, stills himself with a hand, and lets his attention drift back to Shiro, sleeping nude on the bed.

It’s no question now that he has to touch, and Keith slides his free hand over Shiro’s impossibly trim waist in a sure glide. Too light a touch might rouse his friend, too firm certainly will, and Keith is confident that he has the pressure just right because Shiro doesn’t even shift, his breathing low and deep and regular, completely content to remain unconscious. Keith lets the pad of his middle finger dip softly into the hollow of Shiro’s navel, barely pausing before travelling across his abs – softer now that he’s sleeping, but still gently ridged – delighting in the smoothness of Shiro’s skin and the silky dark hairs which thicken as he allows himself to drift south.

The tissue is his grasp is stiff and tacky, and Keith brings his hand toward his face before he can think about the action or what it means. The scent is strong, dark, heady, and Keith feels dizzy as he inhales. He wonders what it was Shiro thought about as he stroked himself. Who did he imagine? What were they doing? Did he fuck his fist like Keith is doing now, or did he sprawl there lazily and simply pump his arm, flexing those impressive biceps for his own enjoyment? Keith glances up at Shiro’s face, slack with sleep, and wonders what his best friend looks like when he comes. He pulls his bottom lip in-between his teeth, dragging at the flesh almost painfully as he brings Shiro’s used tissues to the head of his cock.

He wants to know what Shiro looks like naked.

Keith sets a rhythm, keeping Shiro’s tissues near the tip of his cock as he works his shaft with the rest of his hand, going slowly, matching the drawn-out way he’s forced to touch his best friend. But Keith knows he delights in it too – he’s starting to understand what Shiro means when he talks about _patience yields focus._ He teases himself with the idea of Shiro’s nudeness as his fingers skim just under the rumpled edge of the sheet, moving over the same space again and again in infinite slowness. And then he’s moving lower, cupping Shiro’s hip with his palm, his fingers inching across to the thin skin of his lower belly, and Keith groans as he lifts his hand away, the sheet moving with him to pile across Shiro’s upper thighs, leaving him in full and glorious view.

Keith _nearly_ groans aloud. Instead he clenches his jaw tightly and sucks a deep breath in through his nose, full of the scent of the other man, forcing himself to still the slow pulls on his cock, lest he ruin his orgasm by coming so soon. For a long while he simply focuses on breathing, not moving, just looking at Shiro as his own cock aches in his fist.

Keith’s known for a while that Shiro tucks left, in his athletic gym leggings and the jeans he sometimes picks to wear when they go out on the bikes it’s impossible not to notice, but a soft bulge has nothing on the explicit reality of seeing Shiro’s cock like this. It’s big, even soft Keith knows it would be more than a handful, and rests along the crease of Shiro’s hip. The hair which snakes down from Shiro’s belly thickens a little toward the base of his cock, but lower than that the man is impeccably smooth. Keith takes another shaky breath as he realises Shiro must shave or wax or something, wondering if that hairless skin continues down between his thighs and along the crease of his arse. And who does he do it for anyway? Shiro has no lover, no boyfriend. The thought that Shiro does it _for himself_ , because he likes the way it feels, makes Keith woozy. It’s so decadent.

Eventually, Keith allows himself to return to touching, resting his land low on the flat plane of Shiro’s belly, his two littlest fingers brushing further, over the place where soft hair becomes smooth skin, right at the root of Shiro’s ample dick. Shiro just goes on breathing slow and deep, lost in unconsciousness, completely unaware, and Keith begins to stroke himself again, settling in place so that he can track his eyes all over Shiro’s chest and stomach and groin as he touches.

He’s never touched anyone else before, not like this, and he already knows he never will. There’s no one else he trusts like Shiro, Shiro is special. Keith is sure that if Shiro woke now he would be kind and sweet and compassionate. Shiro would stop him, sure, but he’d do everything he could so that Keith didn’t feel bad for what he’s doing. Theoretically, Keith knows he is taking advantage of his best friend – the most important person in his universe – but he can’t help but shake the feeling that what’s he’s doing is right. And he knows he needs it. Nothing else will calm him, allow him to sleep, and Keith hasn’t attempted to jerk off since he started visiting Shiro’s room in the night. Who else would he spill himself for anyway? He is Shiro’s and always will be.

Shiro makes a noise – a sleeping one, low and unfiltered, one foot twitching briefly, his fingers curling tightly in the sheets before he relaxes again, drifting deep into sleep once more. Keith only pauses momentarily, secure in the situation, and tugs on himself slowly as he moves his hand lower, stroking down over Shiro’s skin, brushing over his balls where they hang smooth and heavy between his parted thighs.

Shiro’s cock twitches beside his hand, an echo of his pulse, and Keith pauses before drawing back. Does he dare to touch there too? Will Shiro wake with a hard on he can’t explain? Keith shakes his head and instead of stroking, simply palms Shiro’s soft cock, adoring the velvet texture of his skin just here. He can feel his orgasm building as he strokes himself, knows that it won’t be long now, not with the sight and scent and textures of Shiro filling his senses.

And then Keith’s thumb catches on something on Shiro’s skin, next to his cock, and he passes the digit over it again, hardly understanding what he’s feeling.

“Fuck.” It’s more shaped breath than a word, and Keith is glad, because as he palms over Shiro’s soft cock again and feels his fingertips drag over another rough and tacky patch. He couldn’t bear to stop now.

Shiro might have come into the tissues Keith is now rubbing himself off with, but he didn’t bother to even clean up with them. His silky smooth skin is decorated with whatever dried remnants of his orgasm remains. It’s so fucking opulent, to imagine Shiro drawing out his orgasm, coming as long as he liked, then simply drifting off into a haze of afterglow and sleep, unconcerned with his mess. Keith shudders.

It’s the last thought which puts him over the edge, the image in his head of Shiro – naked and stretched across his bed – freshly decorated with his orgasm, grinning to himself at the endorphins flooding through his system. Keith’s breath hitches in his chest, he fucks hard and fast into his fist, cupping Shiro’s used tissues around the crown as he starts to come. He forces himself to keep his eyes open, to keep looking as he spurts and pulses, his come mixing with Shiro’s mess, his gathered hands so close to Shiro’s sleeping body. The knowledge of his and Shiro’s come together feels electrifying and wrong, an infringement of privacy beyond everything Keith’s already done.

He wants to do it again.

*

Ten days later Keith stands with Matt’s mother and his little sister – a little slip of a thing with auburn tresses wearing a purple summer dress – as the person Shiro named as _family_ so he could get a goodbye hug. Because only family get to say goodbye once the team are suited up. He knows that Iverson and the rest of the Command don’t really want him here – because he isn’t family, not like Matt and Professor Holt are – but no-one wants to kick up a fuss. Shiro is the Golden Boy, Keith is fast becoming more than just his protégé, and Shiro doesn’t have anyone else anyway. Shiro is going to step into a spacecraft which will take him further than anyone has ever gone, and Keith wants every second that he can get.

When Shiro hugs him, as tightly as he can through his space suit, Keith buries himself into the hold, pressing his face into Shiro’s chest and not caring how it makes him look to anyone else who sees. He is so happy for Shiro, and so heartbroken to say goodbye to his friend.

“I’ll be back, Spitfire.”

“You’d better.” Keith tells him, fist hanging onto the front of Shiro’s suit, the fabric bulky and stiff. “Or I’ll come and fetch you myself.”

*

Unsurprisingly, a few nights later Keith wakes up somewhere other than his dormitory bed, and recognises the corridor and the nearby door easily. It’s been a while since he sleep walked his way to Shiro’s quarters, and Keith’s gut twists as he realises that, of course, Shiro won’t be there. He exhales silently, his hand coming up towards the palm scanner before he can stop himself. With a jolt of surprise which makes him quiver all the way down to his bare toes, the panel chirrups a welcome and turns green briefly before the door slides open. Keith’s breath catches in his chest, and it makes no sense because surely Shiro locked his quarters fully before he left on the mission, but he slips inside like a ghost anyway.

The scent of Shiro is everywhere, rich cedarwood and soft white musk, and Keith follows his feet automatically to Shiro’s bedroom.

The bed is perfectly made, crisp in every detail, and so shockingly empty that it makes Keith’s heart actually hitch. It’s painful and wrong and Keith puts his palm over the muscle and presses as hard as he can, fighting back the almost overwhelming urge to scream into the dark silence of the very early morning. He manages though, and straightens up. True, Shiro is gone and Keith already misses him like a lost limb, but he will be back. It’ll be nearly a year, but before the next high summer, Shiro will be back.

Keith allows himself a deep breath, then glances back at the empty bed. An object on the nightstand glimmers in his vision, and Keith steps closer.

Shiro’s room is packed up exactly like that of someone who expects to be gone for ten months – everything folded and clean and put away lest it gather dust. Keith is certain that if he ventured into the bathroom he would find it newly cleaned, Shiro's toothbrush and toothpaste discarded and new, sealed, and plastic wrapped ones waiting in place ready for him to return. Shiro is organised like that. He probably folded the end of the toilet paper into a little point like they do in hotels. But on the nightstand is a bottle. Chunky glass cut in a smooth geometric shape, and Keith realises what it is before he hefts it in his palm. Shiro’s cologne. The black and gold label is mostly written in French, but a quick sniff of the seam around the cap gives Keith a hit of the same scent he has allowed himself to get quietly drunk on every time they’ve hung out together.

He smiles, and sets it back down.

There is one other object in the room, because whilst all of Shiro's clothes and uniforms have been put away, his leather jacket is slung over the chair in the corner, like Shiro discarded it after their last hoverbike ride and hasn’t moved it since. Keith gathers the leather up in his arms before he can really stop to think about it, and presses his face into the fabric. The sense-memory of Shiro’s warmth makes him want to cry.

Hard as he is, Keith doesn’t care for the pulsing need of his hormones right now. Instead, he curls up in the chair, noting the way it squeaks because he’d never have dared to sit in it whilst Shiro slept, and curls around the jacket in his arms. Cedarwood and leather.

Keith stays there until his eyes are tired and his erection had subsided on its own, then takes the long walk back to his dorm. He feels cold.

*

Five months after the launch, Shiro’s face flashes up on the screens all around the Garrison and Cadets and Instructors alike are sat down in several large lecture halls to be told of the pilot error and the loss of the entire Kerberos mission crew. As Iverson is telling the assembly that ‘the Garrison sends deepest condolences to the Holt family for their loss’ Keith feels his heart rend in two. The bigger piece belongs to Shiro. Only his tight and well-trained vocal restraint stops him from screaming, only the willpower trained over months of sneaking around the Garrison base in the dead of night keeps him from retching where he stands. He quivers with tension as Iverson finishes the address, waits for the first word of dismissal, then vaults over whatever rows of seating and people are in his way and pounds up the stairs and along the corridors until he comes to Shiro’s room.

Already there are a gaggle of other junior officers around the locked doorway, and Keith can only see them as vultures. He wants to snarl. He cannot go in there, not now, not when everyone will see that he can open the door by himself. There will be too many questions.

In the end it does not matter, because Collen Holt appears at his dormitory with an expression of utter devastation and a box. Lying folded atop it is Shiro’s leather jacket. Between long pauses where Keith knows she is completing her own personal quirks of how not to give into sobbing, she tells him that she and her family have known for a week, how she asked to be given Shiro’s things as there was no registered next of kin, and how she’s sorry.

Keith bites back every snarl and snap, realising that despite the forms listing him as family for Shiro’s launch, he is not _actually_ Shiro’s family, and everyone at the Garrison seems to have forgotten that Shiro was ever important to Keith. Keith clutches the jacket tightly and hopes he was even half as important to Shiro.

Colleen Holt tells him he can always come to her if he needs to talk, and Keith thanks her.

*

Three days later he gets into an argument turned fist fight with James-fucking-Griffin, and Iverson tells him to buck up and stop wasting time being sad.

Keith only doesn’t hit him because it would disappoint Shiro.

He straps everything he owns – not much – and all of Shiro’s carefully guarded possessions to the back of his hoverbike, and takes off into the desert, vowing never to go back to the Garrison.

*

The shack where Keith grew up with his father is quiet. Quieter than Shiro’s quarters late at night when everyone but Keith was asleep, and he could be as loud as he likes. But he can’t.

He lies on the bed at night, or sometimes in a hammock made from a spare bedsheet on the little rickety porch, and stares at the sky.

He feels nothing, nothing but a deep pull towards the desert, and another, stronger pull up into the sky. His heart is broken, but he refuses to believe Shiro is dead, and certainly not by ‘pilot error.’ Shiro doesn’t make errors.

For the first time in his life, Keith has the freedom from people and the space to use how he likes. He could jerk off however and whenever he likes. But he doesn’t, and doesn’t want to. His libido vanished along with Shiro, and Keith simply curls himself into Shiro’s jacket, willing it to feel warm once again as it always used to, and wishes to see his friend again.

*

Keith stands leaning against the wall of the shack where he has lived alone for the past year, staring at his best friend, unable to move for fear he might blink and discover the last few hours have been a strange and heart wrenching dream. However, he is fairly certain that even his imagination isn’t cruel enough to saddle him with three Garrison Junior Cadets. The big one of whom seems be on the verge of a permanent panic attack, and another who apparently has a grudge against Keith for not being able to remember who the fuck he is.

But none of that matters – though they have all finally fallen asleep in the other room on all of the sparse furniture that Keith owns – because Shiro is here.

Shiro is alive, just as Keith knew he was. Shiro is here, now, real and solid and wearing Keith’s fathers’ old clothes. And Keith is standing not six feet away, still holding Shiro’s old jacket. The leather no longer smells of him, only of desert dust. When Shiro had gone to put it on over his new alien prosthetic, he’d frowned softly as they both realised he is bigger now, bulkier, and the jacket no longer fits.

“You keep it.” Shiro’s hand had been big and warm and firm on his shoulder, and Keith had listed into the touch, only not crying because the desert had dried up all his tears long before.

Despite living in the desert, for the first time in the nearly eighteen months since Shiro launched to Kerberos, Keith feels warm.

His whole body is warm, heat radiating from his chest right down to the tips of his toes, making his fingers tingle with sensation he thought might be gone forever. For the first time since he saw the words ‘pilot error’, Keith feels a stirring between his loins, soft and faint, but familiar.

All night he stands watch, tracking over Shiro’s body – with all it’s differences true, but also all the things which are just so Shiro that no change of hair colour or number of scars could ever eclipse them – reassuring himself that his best friend is real and here. Whatever comes next, they can face it together, and it’ll be OK, because Shiro’s back, and Keith finally feels grounded.

*

Whatever Keith was expecting to come next, it wasn’t that.

*

Life in space is weird. The days and nights aren’t really day or night – they mostly rely on the ten-thousand-year-old automated systems of the Castle to set their sleeping patterns – and time seems like a weird arbitrary construct. They train and eat, pilot the lions, meditate, argue, form Voltron, and fight the Galra.

Forming Voltron is strange and wonderful, and Keith _feels_ Shiro’s mind sliding right alongside his own each time they do it. It is electrifying and nothing has ever felt so right before. And sure, the others are there too, but Keith’s not sure any of them trust him yet. Pidge is cool though hard to understand, but Keith knows the Blue Paladin still hates him. Hunk seems friendly enough; Keith hopes he’ll get over his propensity for space-sickness soon.

Despite everything that’s changed, it takes almost no time at all for Keith to wake up in an otherwise deserted hallway in the middle of the night when the Castle has turned all the lighting down to its deepest sleep setting. He is a few feet from the door to Shiro’s room – it’s the closest one to his own and the other three stretch down past it towards the space which has become their unofficial common room – and he’s cold.

Discovering that biometric palm reading technology is actually an intergalactic standard has been a bit weird, but Keith is grateful now as he presses his hand against the invisible panel besides Shiro’s door. He’s not expecting anything to happen, but it’s such an ingrained habit that it feels comforting to stand half an inch from Shiro’s door, knowing that his best friend is asleep on the other side. Shiro is alive, he is here, and though changed he is still the same Shiro in every way which matters.

And… his door is opening.

Keith snaps back from the portal in horror as the door slides soundlessly open. Sure, they all logged their handprints into the Castle’s systems in order to activate the privacy locks on their own rooms, but when did Shiro have the time to add Keith’s handprint to his door? And why did he feel the need… Keith doesn’t even finish the thought, because he passes through the doorway into Shiro’s room, letting it slip silently closed behind him, and blinks in the soft light.

Shiro’s room is almost exactly like his own, with the bed built into one wall, and sparsely furnished with furniture which sinks into hidden recesses in the walls and floor. Shiro’s clothes are folded on the only chair with a familiar military precision, and there is not a single other item in the room. But of course, there wouldn’t be. Keith inhales deeply, turning his attention to the shape of the man sleeping in the bed, his senses filling with cedarwood. There’s no way Shiro’s had access to his cologne whilst he’s been gone, and Keith wonders how much of the scent is just his mental association and how much is Shiro’s natural scent. Either way, it makes heat bloom under Keith’s skin for the first time since they left Earth in a giant robot space lion.

Shiro sleeps like a man who has been in unstable and violent captivity for a year. He lies curled up on his side in the bed, facing the door but right up against the edge of the mattress, his whole body visibly tense under the light covers. His dark brows are furrowed, his jaw hard, mouth pressed into a thin line. Keith feels the pieces of his broken heart chiming against each other at the sight, because Shiro always used to sleep like he didn’t have a worry in the world beyond marking assessments and challenging Keith’s new high scores in the flight simulator.

Keith doesn’t quite know what has happened to Shiro in the time since his capture – he hasn’t told them much – but he knows it was bad. Bad beyond just the fighting and the arm, and Shiro not knowing if he was going to live or die or ever get back to earth. It hurts to see Shiro sleeping like a hunted thing. And Keith knows he should go, that it’s risky to be here when Shiro is breathing too fast to be deeply asleep, but he can’t.

Shiro must have added his palm print to his lock for a reason after all.

Keith steps up to the bed, bare feet landing soft and silent on the seamless floor, because he knows of no other way to move, not now. He’s too practised at being quiet. There is no space on the bed in front of Shiro, he is pressed right up against the front edge, and Keith dithers for a moment as he decides what to do. He is cautious, always so cautious, but as he moves closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off the other man, Shiro visibly relaxes into the mattress. Keith pulls his lower lip between his teeth and leans over Shiro’s sleeping form to rest his weight on the other side of the mattress. If Keith was any heavier or any less agile, it wouldn’t work, but it does. He crawls over the top of Shiro without touching him and settles onto the mattress on the other side.

Carefully, oh so carefully, he settles behind Shiro, echoing each line of his pose, pillowing his head on one curled up bicep, before reaching across the meagre space between them. He touches where he’s always touched, smoothing his palm into the small of Shiro’s back.

The moment he touches, instead of tensing like Keith might expect considering the light nature of Shiro’s slumber, his best friend let’s out a soft unconscious groan, and the motion of relaxation which began when Keith’s felt his body heat is completed. Shiro’s head rolls back, the muscles of his neck going slack, the slump of his spine very nearly tipping him onto Keith’s chest. Keith makes his breath soft and slow, even and measured as Shiro relaxes against him. By the time Keith’s palm has made it around to the subtle curve of his waist – familiar but different – Shiro’s breathing has fallen into a matching pattern to his own, and a quick glance shows that Shiro’s jaw has lost the tightness it held before. Keith feels a soft vibration kick up in his chest but quells it.

He must not wake Shiro. Not now, not ever if good sleep is so hard for his friend to come by, so whatever noise it is his body wants to make can wait for another time.

Keith lets himself relax by tiny degrees, sinking very slightly into the mattress even as Shiro slumps further. Keith sweeps his hand up over his chest, feeling for his pulse, and he’s sure he imagines the soft little huff which falls from Shiro’s lips when he presses his palm over the muscle.

Keith doesn’t know quite what’s happened to Shiro, but he’s here, he’s alive, and they’ll face whatever this war has to throw at them together.

*

“Hey, Shiro!”

“Keith.”

Keith resists the urge to shiver with pleasure when Shiro says his name like that, all low and soft and exactly like he used to before he left for Kerberos. Keith jogs the last stretch of Castle hallway he’s been using as a running track and smiles at his friend. Shiro shifts his weight – one foot to the other – then lays a hand on his shoulder. His textured exoskin thumb brushes over the edge of Keith’s collar since his jacket is lying discarded on the floor, and Keith feels warmth bloom through him at the contact.

“Good morning.”

“Is it morning?” Shiro frowns thoughtfully. “Honestly it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.” He squeezes Keith’s shoulder, tugging him close, and Keith goes instantly. “It’s nice to have a familiar face around this time though.”

Keith knuckles his friend in the abdomen with a snort. The others don’t really get Shiro’s dry gallows humour, they think it’s weird in light of all which has happened to him, but he’s always been like this. Keith grins.

“I have something for you.”

“Oh, a present? I feel special.”

 _You are special,_ Keith wants to tell him, but he contains himself. He ducks from Shiro’s grasp to fetch up his jacket, locates the item within the inner pocket, and holds it out to him. Shiro’s hands over his are warm and solid.

“Keith…” Shiro’s lips barely move with the word, but his eyes are soft and glassy. Keith bites his lip, because the last thing he ever wants is for Shiro to cry over him.

“It’s not really a present,” he says, placing the chunky glass cologne bottle more firmly into Shiro’s grasp before stepping back a little. “Just… a return.”

Shiro uncaps the gold stopper and holds the bottle to his nose, sniffing greedily with his eyes closed. Keith smiles, loving the way Shiro’s eyelashes fan across his cheek. He wonders if he’s made the same softly blissed out expression on the many occasions he’s done the exact same thing.

“Thanks, Keith.”

“I was going to give it to you, back at the cabin, or out in the desert… but then…” Keith shrugs, gesturing to the ancient, technologically advanced space ship they are standing in. “Yeah.”

“You mean you didn’t actually expect to end up in deep space fighting a war to save the universe from an evil empire?” Shiro says with a jocular off-handedness Keith couldn’t hope to achieve even if he practised for decades.

“Well… not this quickly, no.”

Shiro smiles, then depresses the vaporiser of his cologne, filling the little space between them with cedarwood and white musk. It is a scent Keith knows intimately, given how many hours he has spent with that bottle pressed close to his face. He shifts his weight, adjusting his aromatically inspired hard on, and watches as Shiro drags his scent laden wrist over his throat. Keith swears the room gets brighter as his pupils dilate.

“Keith…” Shiro looks back at him, and for the first time since he left for Kerberos, Keith sees a real, true smile plumping his best friend’s cheeks. A pair of soft little creases appear at the corners of his mouth, and Keith is transported.

Shiro smiled like that when Keith had finally pulled up alongside him on his vintage hoverbike, heart still in his throat having watched Shiro throw himself off a cliff. Shiro smiled like that when Keith exited the flight simulator for the first time in his too-new, too-starchy Cadet uniform. Shiro smiled like that the first time Keith got a good pin on him during sparring.

“I missed your smile.” He doesn’t mean to say it, but Keith wouldn’t take it back, not for the world and all the stars between here and there.

Shiro’s hand rests once again on his shoulder: warm, solid, familiar, grounding. Keith closes his eyes, imagining the Arizona sun on his face, as dawn broke over the desert the morning after Keith stole Shiro out from under the Garrison. He smiles.

“Keith, I missed you.” A pause, a long beat of comfortable silence where neither of them feels the need to talk, and then. “You want to go spar?”

Keith grins.

“Heck yeah. C’mon, Hotshot!”

“You still an easy pin, Spitfire?” Shiro goads, both of them already moving toward the main gym in the Castle they’ve taken as their own.

Keith over takes him by vaulting off an angled section of the bulkhead, landing in a crouch with a smirk.

“Only one way to find out!”

*

The only times Keith is warm is when he slots himself into the space behind Shiro in the other man’s bed at night. Not even when breathing hard and sweating buckets after a battle or after training is he so warm in his bones.

It happens almost exactly like before, Keith wakes in the passageway between their rooms, or half out of his bed, or at his door, heading toward Shiro’s room. The only difference is that he’s not achingly hard in his boxers each time now, which considering their general lack of clothes and the Altean’s general disregard of underwear is actually a relief.

Soon he’s waking every night, sneaking across the hall and into Shiro’s room, climbing carefully over the tightly hunched shape of his sleeping friend, watching Shiro twitch and quiver in his dreams, before settling down behind him. And every night, with all the certainty of the tide, Shiro sinks deeper into sleep the moment Keith touches him, his muscles easing, his breath slowing, the tension is his face visibly slacking off as Keith pets over his back, his hip, his belly. Keith drifts, not sleeping but not truly awake, until his internal clock tells him the night is almost over. He presses his palm to Shiro’s waist, departing just as he arrived, and slips back to his own room to sleep like the dead for an hour until the Castleship’s lights come up to signal the beginning of _yet another day in space._

Keith never thought he’d use a phrase like that.

And when he meets Shiro in the common room and they groan good naturedly over Hunk’s latest food goo concoction – or fall against each other after training, Shiro knocking into his shoulder and letting out a heavy sigh despite being clearly not as exhausted as Keith is – Keith wonders if this was what he needed all along. Maybe being close to Shiro is enough.

But it doesn’t last.

Soon he’s hard before he wakes, lays in his bed and tries to jerk off by himself, and nothing happens. It’s been such a long time since he touched himself, since before his expulsion from the Garrison, and Keith wonders if perhaps he’s broken something in his head.

But the moment he slides into bed behind Shiro, his head knows exactly what it wants.

So, he touches.

Keith waits until Shiro has sunk deep into sleep, his breath slow and silent, and touches his friend as he touches himself.

And it’s luxurious, because there’s no one to hurry up for, he has hours to himself, and there’s no one to judge if he just wants to spend the whole time simply caressing Shiro’s thighs and the dip of his spine and the plush curves of his pecs. Keith drags his fingers over skin which was once smooth, feeling the roughness and thickening of new scars, and his cock aches and pulses with desire. Shiro has come back from captivity ripped in more ways than one, and Keith wishes he could show his friend how beautiful he still is with his white hair and his new scars. He expects he should probably find the new weaponised arm scary, but he doesn’t. Because it’s still Shiro, and Keith adores everything about Shiro.

Even this.

He spends his nights mapping out Shiro’s body, all the differences and all the things which are the same, inhaling his scent, building a catalogue of his friend until Keith is fairly certain he could recreate Shiro if he had any shred of artistic talent. The more he touches, the deeper and easier Shiro seems to sleep.

*

Shiro isn’t wearing any underwear.

Keith completes his slide under the blankets, fitting himself into the space behind Shiro even as the bigger man relaxes back against him. Keith’s hand goes the small of his back instantly, just as it always does, but his little finger does not brush the cotton edge of Shiro’s underwear. The difference catches at his brain, and Keith allows his hand to drift lower to confirm that Shiro is indeed naked, and that his arse is still – of fucking course – a thing of exquisite beauty. Keith doubts the Altean’s who designed the Paladin armour meant for it to inspire the levels of thirst in him which it does.

But seeing Shiro’s sculpted arse through his black undersuit is not the same as feeling the plump flesh under his hand, and Keith forces his groan into a shuddering exhale instead of making a noise.

He drags his hand all the way down to Shiro’s thigh, then smooths back up, lingering his fingertips in the crease between leg and buttock, palming one cheek and feeling the way the muscle moulds and springs back under his touch. In his own underwear, his untouched dick jerks with his pulse, wetness smearing at the tip, and Keith fights back another groan. In front of him, Shiro grunts softly, a sleepy noise of contentment, and carries on being completely oblivious to what Keith is doing to him.

Carefully, oh so carefully, Keith eases the blankets down until there is enough filtered illumination from the dimmed lights Shiro seems to keep on all the time, and Keith can’t help but stare at the contrast of his slim fingers splayed over Shiro’s ample bottom. Keith feels his vision go blurry at the edges, as desire pulls at his senses. Still moving slowly, he creeps his hand toward the cleft between Shiro’s cheeks, and holds firm as he pulls the flesh apart.

The sight is almost enough to make Keith lose all his carefully practised furtiveness. Shiro’s hole is rose pink and soft, a perfect little whorl of puckered flesh that Keith desperately wants to touch. Shiro’s skin is so smooth here, immaculate, and Keith is struck all over again by the knowledge that Shiro must complete this level of personal grooming, purely for his own enjoyment and pleasure. There’s no one else he’s showing off for. Keith abandons stroking his own cock through his underwear, and draws his fingertips down from the base of Shiro’s spine to his entrance. His fingers are slightly damp with his own fluids, and it feels wrong to leave evidence of his arousal on Shiro’s gorgeous body, but Keith can’t help himself. He swirls the pad of his thumb across Shiro’s hole, and the idea of his precome right here sparks something dark and possessive inside him.

Of course, he should leave evidence of himself here. Shiro is his. Why wouldn’t he mark his territory?

The thought snaps him back to himself just as he finds his hand back on his own crotch, squeezing the head of his now-freed cock, collecting the liquid confirmation of his arousal. Keith shakes but he can’t stop himself from transferring the shiny slick to Shiro’s skin, playing his fingers up and down and around his hole, touching all his little intimate places.

Again and again, until Shiro’s skin is wet with him, until Keith is sliding his fingers across Shiro’s perineum like he is fucking into that sensitive space behind his balls. Keith’s breathing is shaky and uneven, but Shiro’s is so restful. It’s calming, euphoric to know that his presence is allowing his best friend to sleep better, but Keith knows he can’t leave like this. His cock is almost purple at the head with need, the foreskin rolled back and tight around his girth. He feels a deeper ache too – somewhere below his belly, but above his balls – which compels him to fuck and claim what’s rightfully his. Keith bites back every single groan and half aborted filthy swear, and finally releases the globe of Shiro’s arse in order to touch himself.

To his surprise, he doesn’t come the instant he gets a hand around himself, but begins to jerk himself off to the same slow, rocking motion of his fingers moving between the wet flesh of Shiro’s thighs. This is simultaneously worse and better than coming into the same tissue Shiro had used to clean up after jerking off, because Keith is fully aware of how much more he is touching his friend, and how much more he wants to touch him. He pulls his gaze from the sight of his cock so close to the slick crease of Shiro’s arse and stares instead at the broad, shirtless expanse of his back. Keith counts the scars across his shoulders, the marring where the prosthetic joins onto his natural arm and he wonders what past horrors inflicted all those wounds.

He is proud of Shiro for surviving, for winning, for returning to him. No matter the cost. Because Keith picked someone strong, someone worthy, someone who will fight with him and for him.

Keith shudders with the thoughts, with the sensation of his fingers sliding between Shiro’s perfect thighs. Realistically he knows Shiro isn’t his, but he cannot stop the spiral which tugs on his libido and pulls him upward, prickling pleasure all along his spine. He looks back down, and bites his lip hard enough to draw a tiny bead of tangy copper blood at the sight of their bodies so close to each other. He’s already fucking Shiro’s thighs with his hand, a little more couldn’t hurt.

Keith swallows dryly, hoping the little click of his throat isn’t enough to disturb Shiro’s slumber, and keeps his hand around his shaft as he inches his hips forward, and slots the head of his cock into the tight squeeze between Shiro’s thighs.

The warmth which blooms through him from the contact cannot be normal, but Keith cares very little for normal right now because his body is on fire, lit from within by a fierce glow and he feels his mind settle into a deep contentment he cannot explain. Shiro is tight and wet around him, and Keith smears his cockhead through the slick of his own fluids, making more of a mess, knowing that there will be no way to hide what he’s done or clean it up and – if only for now – not caring. He squeezes Shiro’s thigh rhythmically with his other hand, leaving moist and tacky fingerprints on Shiro’s thigh. The echoing idea that one day he might hold onto Shiro’s flesh hard enough to bruise as he fucks him, put Keith much closer to the edge of his orgasm than he thought.

He wants to groan, to say Shiro’s name and praise him and kiss over every inch of his skin and scars, but he can’t. Instead Keith settles for a silent litany of _ShiroShiroShiro_ is his head. Each beat of his pulse subsumed by the roll of his hips, the jerk of his hand, the tight squeeze of Shiro’s flesh around the tip of his cock as he shakes apart at the seams.

Keith comes for what feels like forever, breathless, unable even to gasp as he pulses and shakes, shivering as he watches himself spurt against Shiro’s skin. He comes more than he thinks he ever has, ruining the sheets instantly, and he feels not a single thread of guilt at all.

Shiro is his.

*

“You think they’ll ever actually leave?” Shiro asks, plopping down onto the sofa next to Keith and throwing his arms across the back of the grey cushions with a sigh. “Or is Hunk going to stay and half-argue half-flirt with that chef forever?”

Keith groans, twisting to get out of Shiro’s away, but finds one large metal and polymer hand pressing over his chest, encouraging him to slump into his friend’s side. And Keith is only mortal, so he goes with a soft grunt, looking up at Shiro through his bangs.

“Probably. Last time we were at the mall they just could not shut up about recipes and different flavour combinations and stuff.” Keith rolls his eyes. “Between that and the other two getting lost in the arcade I’m amazed we got anything done.”

“Good thing we took more than one pod this time,” Shiro replies with a grin. “How annoyed do you think they’ll be that we ditched them?”

Keith huffs his bangs out of his eyes briefly, and wonders if he is imagining the softness in Shiro’s expression as his friend uses his other hand to adjust the fall of his fringe. Shiro smiles, like it’s natural.

And it is, because they’ve always been close as friends, always affectionate, and it’s not like Keith would ever accept hugs from anyone _other_ than Shiro.

“I am planning to be indisposed and locked it my room when they get back,” Keith says, trailing his own arm down over the edge of the couch. He can feel the heat radiating from Shiro’s leg. “I am not listening to Pidge complain about how hard it is to squeeze them and all their arcade winnings and Hunk’s ingredients into one pod.”

Shiro groans at this and it sounds pained.

“Shiro?”

Shiro peeks from behind the hand he’s pressed over his face, but he is still smiling.

“What if Hunk punishes us by not feeding us again?” Shiro’s arm goes tight around Keith’s chest for a moment. “I don’t want to have to live on food goo full time.”

Keith shrugs. Food goo is one of the weirdest parts of life in space – odder somehow than flying a slightly sentient ancient robot lion, because at least that Keith understands – and whilst the texture-less mass isn’t actually pleasant, it’s far from the worst thing Keith’s put in his mouth.

“Food goo beats rice, canned goods, and the few times I caught snakes in the desert.”

That gets a reaction from Shiro. Keith has to tilt his face up in order to be able to see him properly, and the position puts his head almost in Shiro’s lap. Shiro looks equal parts shocked and impressed, and there is a soft pink blush staining his cheeks. It reminds Keith of another place which is pink.

“Snakes?” Shiro says in disbelief, sounding like he’s swallowed his tongue.

“Yeah. Before- when my dad was around, he taught me how to trap snakes and tell which ones were good for eating. You have to peel them with your hands though and it’s tough work.” Keith’s grin broadens at the memory, watching his father holding tight to the thrashing serpent before ending its life swiftly. “Wrangling snakes is… like sparring – only slippery.”

Shiro stares at him, mouth open, and Keith would take the time to focus on the soft shadows between his pretty lips, but the longer the holds Shiro’s gaze, the more Shiro blushes. Keith let’s himself smile a little more broadly, staring into his friend’s eyes until he has all his teeth on display and his cheeks ache a little from the force of the smile. It’s worth it for how the blush spreads over Shiro’s face and down his neck, vanishing into the scoop neck of his tank top. The tips of his ears are red and he looks almost as though he is sweating with the force of it. Everywhere they touch, Keith can feel his best friend’s heat leeching into him, and he never wants to move away. Shiro heaves a breath, apparently only moments away from hyperventilating or passing out.

At last Keith can resist no longer, finally releasing his lower lip from the bite of his teeth to laugh heartily. Shiro’s eyes go wide at the sound, and then he is laughing too, quiet and breathless in comparison to Keith’s deep chuckle. Shiro’s hand drifts to Keith’s belly, feeling the hitch of his abs as he grins manically and gulps for air.

Keith knows that the last time he laughed like this – this hard – was with Shiro also.

“Keith-!” Shiro presses a hand across his eyes, still giggling silently.

“Shiro.” There’s no reason for him to say it, but Keith likes to have his best friends name in his mouth.

Shiro’s blush has faded a little now that he’s breathing again, but the colour remains high on his cheeks. It makes Keith smile, gentle now as he rubs the back of his knuckles against Shiro’s calf. The hand on his chest presses tight for a moment.

“Did you really used to catch snakes?” Shiro says it with a tone of wonder – not judgement – like this fact is more curious and startling than everything they’ve been through lately, in _space_ , with _aliens._

“Sure. Fewer trips to get groceries.” Keith pauses, and Shiro – waits. Of course he does, because Shiro always gives him the space to talk if he wants to, but never pushes him for more. “Dad used to tell me that he taught Mom to catch snakes, before I was born anyway. He used to get all misty-eyed recounting how fast she was, how easily she took to it, how skilled she was with her knife.”

“Nice that he could teach you the same things.”

“Yeah…” Keith’s father always said he took after his mother. More and more these days out in space, Keith can’t help but wonder about that. But he changes the subject and prods Shiro in the thigh with his elbow. “So why the blush? Not able to imaging me catching a wriggly critter?”

If anything, this makes Shiro blush harder, and Keith is close enough to see the way his throat constricts when he swallows. He feels an answering tightness in his chest and the motion, but heat blooms through him once more.

“No, Keith. I’m sure you could handle a snake. There’s nothing you can’t do.”

Keith resists the desire to snort derisively, the praise making him squirmy.

“You’re so… capable, Keith.” And Shiro sounds softly breathless and proud when he says it. Part of Keith wants to look away, but he stays gazing up at his friend whilst Shiro’s hand sweeps over his chest.

Normally, Keith hates people touching him. Pidge doesn’t try, and Keith’s good at ducking away from Hunk’s enormous hugs without offending the big guy. The few times the egotistical former cargo pilot has tried to put a hand on his shoulder he’s actually flinched. But the rules don’t apply to Shiro, and Keith knows he could stay happily right here forever, talking about anything or nothing, with absolutely no desire to move.

“I don’t want to live on food goo if I can help it,” Shiro says eventually.

Keith makes a softly inquisitive noise in his throat. Just the same as Shiro has learnt to wait in silence for him to talk, Keith knows that Shiro likes the auditory feedback of knowing someone is waiting for his words. Especially like this, when it’s so clear he wants to say something specific. Keith is honoured and delighted it is him Shiro is entrusting with his thoughts.

It takes a few tics – and isn’t it strange, how they’ve all started using the Altean measurements of time so easily now there’s no other available – for Shiro to continue his thought.

“We need to Hunk to cook for us. His food at least has recognisable ingredients.”

“Even if none of us can pronounce them?” Keith quips.

“You’ll get the hang of the language Keith. I promise. I’ll study with you.”

“Like it was at the Garrison?” Keith quirks an eyebrow at his friend, and Shiro’s expression goes soft with memory.

“Yes. Which is why we need Hunk to cook for us. You remember the _mystery meats_ we used to get in the mess hall?”

“What the fuck was in those things….”

“I’m not sure I want to know. And the mashed potato. Stars, they were awful.” Shiro rolls his eyes. “The food goo reminds me a little of the Garrison mashed potato.”

Keith considers this a moment.

“Food goo isn’t quite as wet? I can’t get over the violently green colour not tasting like apple sours though.”

Shiro snorts.

“You and the green candy Keith…” He shakes his head softly, fondly. “Still, food goo isn’t quite as bad as Galra prison rations. I swear it was something texturally like creamed corn which tasted of Spam.”

“Oh…” Shiro has hardly opened up about his experiences while captured, especially not the bits in-between life-altering vivisection and fights to the death. Keith doesn’t want to scare him off.

“And it was – because of fucking course it was – purple. Everything purple.”

Keith waits a beat, then grins.

“I promise if Hunk comes back from the space mall with purple space Spam, I will throw it out of the airlock myself.”

“My hero,” Shiro responds fondly. Then he pouts softly. “You think Hunk can make space mac and cheese?”

“Shiro… you know it doesn’t make it automatically cool if you put ‘space’ in front something, right?”

“Sure it does! The space mall was way cooler than the last mall you and I went to.”

Now it’s Keith’s turn to chew his lip and frown in thought.

“You bought me socks…”

“You didn’t have any!” Shiro’s hand over his chest moves, making as though to circle over his pec, but instead ends up tickling him in the ribs until he headbutts Shiro’s stomach to make him stop. Keith’s not ticklish, but his insides already feel warm and soft just from being close to his best friend. “I bought you a year’s worth of gym clothes, if I remember rightly.”

“Shiro…”

“You turned up to the gym in jeans, Keith.”

Keith grunts unhappily, and Shiro – because he can read Keith better than anyone else in the universe – changes tack immediately.

“I bought you those gloves too. Glad they still fit you.”

Keith laces his fingers together, pressing the leather close into the webbing in his digits. He smiles.

“Yeah. Me too, Shiro.”

The silence which settles over them is comfortable, reassuring. Keith knows it won’t last, because Allura, Coran, and the other Paladins will be back eventually, but just for now, it’s nice to half sit and half lie with Shiro, not talking because they don’t need to, just being in the same place.

Together. Alive, and mostly whole, but together. And that’s all Keith has ever wanted.

*

Shiro is not sleeping curled tightly on the edge of the bed facing the door, and the sight of him sprawled across the mattress makes Keith’s heart skip. Each night lately Shiro has looked more and more relaxed, and it’s made Keith happy to see the tightness in his muscles vanishing by increments. But not as happy as the image presented to him now. Shiro is flat out on his front, cuddling an extremely large pillow – which is not standard issue from the Castle – with both arms, the blankets rucked up around his hips. Keith is momentarily sad that he can’t see Shiro’s legs, because he loves Shiro’s legs, but the broad expanse of his shoulders more than makes up for it.

Keith is jealous of the big grey and hot pink patterned pillow, partly because he wants to be hugged by Shiro and partly because he didn’t find any stores in the space mall with creature comforts. Though he does recognise that his own shopping habits tend to run far more towards sharp things and comfortable, hard-wearing boots than _pillows_ … Still, it would be nice to have something in his room that was actually his.

Keith settles his weight on the bed, lifting the blankets to slide his legs in alongside Shiro’s, and lays propped up on one elbow to watch his friend sleep. He places his hand into the small of Shiro’s back, just as he always does, and Shiro makes a soft groan of sleepy contentment, melting into the sheets. The action makes heat bloom in Keith’s belly, and his cock gives a sympathetic twitch in his underwear. He did at least manage to buy some of those in this space mall, and though he spent a long time looking at pretty things that weren’t in his size, he is at least stocked with a dozen more pairs of red and black boxer shorts. Keith tugs down the waistband, settling it under his balls, and palms his cock softly as he lays down fully in the bed.

The smooth creep of his hand tells him that, once again, Shiro isn’t wearing any underwear, and the memory of what Keith did to him last time comes flooding back along with a thick hit of his cedarwood scent. Keith groans silently.

He wants to spend his time feeling Shiro all over, mapping him out softly and groping languidly at his perfect thighs and gorgeous chest, but Keith finds his hand dipping lower, under the sheets, curving over the sculpted swell of Shiro’s perfect arse. He pauses to breathe, long and slow, calming himself as his cock jerks with his pulse, trapped between his own hand and his lower belly. The idea of making the smooth space between Shiro's thighs slick and wet with his come is heady and not in the least dampened by the fact that Shiro is sleeping with his legs splayed open.

When he feels like his heart rate is once more under his control, Keith lets his hand wander appreciatively across Shiro’s arse before his fingertips glide into the crease between the cheeks. What he feels there makes him freeze.

 _No_. No, it can’t be.

But it is, because the pads of Keith's fingers are damp and slick with lube as he slides them back up to Shiro's tail-bone, the glide unmistakably smooth now. Keith’s breath shudders. Did Shiro play with himself before he slept? Did he stop to throw away the tissues with his come but not to wipe himself off here? Keith’s heart stutters, the picture of Shiro opening himself up with his fingers lodged firmly in his mind. God, what he wouldn’t do to see that.

Keith wraps a hand around the head of his own cock, squeezing softly, rhythmically, then forcefully stops before he lets his fingertips slither back down towards Shiro’s hole. He has touched here before, just that once, and the idea of doing do again sends a thrilling spark up his spine. But his fingers do not make it to their destination, because Shiro's body has another surprise in store.

Keith can’t believe what he’s feeling, it’s not possible, so he has to look. He drags the covers back gently, then uses his other hand to take a firm handful of Shiro’s arse and hold him open. It’s not that dark in Shiro's room – at least, Keith thinks he’s gotten pretty well adjusted to the soft, low level lighting – and Keith can see the thing he couldn’t believe he felt.

“Fuck…”

Not once has he ever spoken in Shiro's room. Not here, not back on earth, but these are exceptional circumstances. Shiro doesn’t stir, and Keith figures he’s gotten away with it as he lays there, spreading Shiro's arse with his hand whilst his fingers trace the perfectly round, perfectly smooth, base of the toy held securely within Shiro’s perfect hole.

A plug. Shiro is wearing a plug.

Keith presses against the base – a material like glass, smooth and seamless and shining softly – but Shiro doesn’t shift in the bed. His breathing remains deep and steady, content and unconscious. Keith can’t tear his eyes from the sight.

 _Where_ did Shiro get it? Did Keith really miss _all_ the fun places in the space mall, or is Shiro just supernaturally gifted at finding alien sex shops? His fingers circle the base of the toy again, helpless not to touch and explore the textures of Shiro’s warm skin meeting the slightly cooler material of the plug. And Shiro fell asleep like this, wanting something inside him like this. Keith exhales with more force than he means, because already he knows that he wants to give Shiro something better to keep safe and warm inside his body.

Keeping Shiro’s cheeks spread with his other hand, Keith grasps the base of the toy with slicked fingers, and works it free with a twist of his wrist and the lewd little pop of wet flesh. The plug is nicely shaped, not too fat but not a beginner level toy by any means, and Keith spends a moment just holding the rounded tip against Shiro’s puffy pink hole, watching as his body tries to suck it back in, even in his somnolent state. But Keith wants to know how it feels, and so even though he is intensely curious about the silky textures of the alien sex toy, he discards it into the sheets and presses his fingertips against the opening to Shiro's body instead.

It’s almost obscene the way he sinks into Shiro. His fingers slipping into the wet heat with only the smallest lick of resistance, filling Shiro up once again where the toy had been. Only once the heel of his hand is resting against Shiro's arse does he feel the tight clench of Shiro’s hole around his fingers, and it takes all of his concentration not to ruin everything by coming. Shiro is so slick and so warm, a pulsing, living, perfect thing around him. Keith’s never known anything like it, and it’s a far cry from touching himself.

He slides his fingers back out again, leaving nothing but the very tips holding Shiro’s body open, and stares at the shine coating his skin. His heart stutters once more, because all Keith can see in his mind’s eye is how much better Shiro could look if that was Keith come inside him, spilling out of him. Keith wants it to be. That way he will have claimed Shiro fully, properly, the way he should to keep him safe.

Keith takes a long, shaky breath, hardly daring to believe he’s going to do it.

But he is going to. He can’t not. Just as he couldn’t resist returning to Shiro's room night after night, touching him, touching himself, cuddling up to the warm presence of his friend, he knows he cannot stop himself from doing this.

Keith slides his fingers back inside Shiro then, and begins to twist and turn, feeling him out, stroking all his edges, just wanting to know what it will feel like to be inside Shiro. This isn’t some random hook up after all, some realistic sex toy, or late-night fantasy. Shiro is his best friend, and Keith wants to know every inch of him – even these ones.

He needs this – but then, by the state of the sex toy Shiro was wearing when he came in – so does Shiro. Really, this is for both of them.

Keith pulls back from Shiro’s body to wipe his lube-slick fingers on his dick, then takes the shaft in hand and presses the purple-tinged crown to Shiro’s slippery hole. There is a breath, a moment of pause, and then Shiro’s body is opening, welcoming him in, and Keith feels his vision go sharp with the sensation of so much heat and life and _Shiro_ surrounding him. It’s indescribable: nothing has ever felt so right before as this. Unbidden, Keith finds a thought in his head telling him that this is what other people have always meant when they describe the feeling of being _home_.

But he isn’t far gone enough to ruin everything by speaking, or by gripping onto Shiro tighter than he ought, so Keith lets his fingers trail softly up to Shiro's hip. Holding there in the way he usually does, keeping his other hand in place to hold Shiro’s arse spread as Keith sinks his cock into him. He knows he shouldn't push his luck, he should just keep the tip inside the brilliant warmth of his friend’s body, but he can’t resist. Shiro is his, his best friend, his home, the person he loves the most in the whole universe, and Keith can’t bring himself to do anything more or less than simply seat himself deep within Shiro’s body and rock his hips softly.

It’s a long way from all the things Keith knows a traditional fucking should be, but he can feel his edge close – far sooner than it’s ever been before – and he wants to try and calm himself down. He doesn’t want to be done and leave Shiro again, especially since despite his friend’s relative comfort, Keith can already feel the way his breathing has slowed and his muscles relaxed since Keith has been here. He can’t just come inside him and leave again. Shiro will sleep poorly and that just won’t do.

He could always come inside Shiro and… stay.

The mere though makes Keith's breath catch, choking on nothing as his balls tighten, the muscles on his thighs going tense and firm as he thinks about spilling himself inside Shiro’s arse. Keeping his seed inside him with his fingers or his cock, making sure that Shiro was well and truly _his_.

He _can’t_.

He has to.

“Shiro…”

It’s more breath than whisper, and Keith half closes his eyes as he stares at Shiro’s body clenching softly, sleep lax, around him as his cock throbs hard and he begins to come with a silent cry of ecstasy. Keith pants in short huffs, making sure to angle his chin so that he’s not overheating Shiro’s back, and keeps his eyes fixed on the melding of their flesh together as he leaves his spend deep inside the sweet warmth of Shiro’s arse. Keith comes for a long time, he always does, but this orgasm is long and luxurious in a way he’s never experienced before.

He comes down on a waft of his own heat, swirling back into his body, loving the feel of Shiro all around him still. When he shifts his hips, the wet squelch is almost overwhelming. Shiro is full of his come. It coats his cock, and Keith grinds deep, just to feel the way the warm seed pushes around inside Shiro’s body. He creeps his fingers softly back across to Shiro’s hole, feeling the tacky wetness of the lube and the little dribbles of Keith’s seed escaping him. He’s stuffed so full he can’t keep it all in, but Keith wants to make him.

Shiro is _his_ after all.

Keith doesn’t know how long he stays with his cock inside Shiro, shifting his hips by microns, feeling the way Shiro’s body clutches weakly at him in unconsciousness, loving the wet, heady slide of his come all around him. When he finally pulls out, Keith stares at the white mess which follows, barely hesitating as he scoops it up on the head of his cock, pushing it all back inside Shiro's puffy hole. He plays like that for a while, just popping the tip of his cock in and out of Shiro’s body, stretching his rim, tugging at it on the way out, and smearing his come up and down Shiro’s cleft with each movement. Everything is slick and decadent and Keith knows he could happily do this for hours: a perfect combination of sight and sensation as he delights in his own mess.

It goes on long enough that Keith knows he can will himself back to full hardness again for another orgasm, but he doesn’t really want to. There’s something lovely about just being here like this, getting to touch and feel Shiro and play with him whilst he sleeps. Shiro is relaxed and sleeping softly, calm. And he spends so much of his time tense and stressed – they all do – and Keith wants to give him this.

He replaces the head of his cock with his fingers again for the next slide, because Keith wants to know what Shiro feels like now that’s he’s loose from Keith’s fucking. He glides three fingers into Shiro’s hole, biting back his moan at the spongy wet texture of his walls, and the sensation of his own come between his fingers as he strokes the inside of Shiro’s body. Shiro is full of him, and that is right and perfect. Keith only realises how much he’s smiling when his cheeks start to ache. When he slips his fingers out, it is only to trace them in circles over Shiro’s rim, teasing the ring of muscle which tries to drag him back in, spreading his wetness everywhere. He eases two fingers into Shiro, spreading them so that – just for a moment – he can see inside him, and the glimpse of his come all shiny and tacky and white against such pink skin makes him feel bathed in heat.

He wants Shiro to stay full of his come even after he leaves. It’s only right.

Keith’s movements stutter and still as he remembers the plug, the hand not fingering Shiro’s perfect hole skating over the sheets to find it. Keith bites his lip, warming the not-glass in his hand, knowing that the best thing to do is to leave Shiro more full than when Keith found him. Shiro will wake up in the morning with his plug still in place, and not until he takes it out will he realise how wet he is. Keith wonders if Shiro will shufflesin for breakfast in his sweats with it still inside him. Maybe their eyes will meet as they drink the space-coffee and Keith will smile knowing what he knows.

He licks his lips, then slips his fingers from Shiro’s hole one last time, pressing the smoothly rounded tip of the plug into the frothy wetness in their place. It takes only a small slide, and then Keith is settling the base of the plug in between Shiro’s cheeks, smoothing his hands over the firm globes of his arse, feeling up and down over his hips and thighs before calming himself with the familiar press of a palm to the small of Shiro’s back before he climbs out of the bed.

Keith leaves just how he came, silent and unobserved, despite the fact that he is now no longer a virgin.

*

But they never get a chance to talk over morning space-coffee, because Coran is calling them all up to the bridge, the viewscreen is filled by a giant blue star and a pair of black holes. Then Keith is very suddenly piloting Red on a very fine line between those three powerful forces towards an otherwise insignificant asteroid, hoping to find out questions about his past. Shiro’s hand rests on his shoulder, calm and secure and grounding, even as Keith looks up into the anonymous faceplate of an alien several time his size and promises to fight him.

It takes a long time – after his Trial is over and apparently won – to calm Red down, and Keith is pleased when his lion finally settles on the rocky platform outside the base to rest. The route to exit the base won’t open for another full quintant, and Keith is grateful, because he feels like he’s just fought for his life several times over and come off worse for wear. His limp is far more pronounced by the time he and Shiro make it back inside the base having quietened the giant sentient lion.

“We should get you out of this suit.” Shiro’s arm is tight around him, arm looped around his aching ribs, and Keith wonders if the contact is the only thing keeping him upright. “You need food and rest, Keith.”

The temptation to respond with his usual ‘I’m fine’ hovers on his tongue, but Keith’s never made it a habit to lie to Shiro. Instead, he huffs a soft laugh.

“See, this is how I knew the hologram wasn’t the real you.” Keith inhales deeply as he allows his temple to rest on the ball of Shiro’s shoulder for a moment, despite the sharp angles of the armour between them. “The real you wouldn’t walk off and leave me injured even if I was wrong.”

“Keith…” Shiro almost sounds hurt by the suggestion. “Of course not.”

“The real you is too big of a softy.”

“Oi-!” Shiro goes to knuckle his scalp, but then clearly thinks better of it. His hand hovers over Keith’s shoulder, not resting his weight given the blow Keith took earlier. “You brat. Come on, there must be somewhere we can get you sorted out. I’m assuming we’re not supposed to sleep in the Trial rooms after all.”

They are indeed met upon their return, by one of the Blades resting idly against a wall, holding a purple holoscreen with their tail. They perk up, standing quickly to attention before tugging off their mask and hood to reveal a face with greyish blue fur and bold purple stripes dissecting both cheeks and golden eyes.

“Greetings, Paladins. I am Regris. I’m here to take you to your quar-” He stops himself with a deep frown. “ _You_ are hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

“Keith?”

“Your friend is injured. He needs medical assistance. Come with me.”

There seems to be no other option, unless they want to go back and sleep in the lion, so they follow Regris. Keith’s not an idiot, he knows he’s hurt, but he doesn’t want to burden Shiro with that. When Kolivan meets them in a sterile-lit medical bay and suggests Shiro might be best suited to choosing their food for the evening meal, Keith smiles and nods, and watches him go with Regris and his swishing tail.

“Take off your suit.”

Keith hesitates, even though he is not particularly attached to this outfit which can read his mind and instil holographic hallucinations into his vision, because he’s fairly certain the pressure of the fabric is the only thing holding his shoulder together. To Keith’s surprise, Kolivan’s hard tone softens, and the towering Galra crouches before him, putting them on an easier eye-level.

“I know it is hard, without your mate. But you are no good to him injured.”

“My… _what_?”

Keith stares, blinking, distracted enough that he begins to tug on the suit’s hidden closure, peeling the sleeve from his uninjured arm as he goes.

But he doesn’t need Kolivan to explain, because the foreign word parsed through the universal translator sparks something deep in his core, and Keith feels warm for the first time since he went back to his own bed.

Shiro is his.

Kolivan makes a concerned hiss between his fangs, and his big hands and sharp claws are gentle as he helps Keith remove the rest of his suit, revealing bruises in every stage from red raw through purple. The open wound in his shoulder is by far the worst, and treating it takes up all their time and attention.

Once the bleeding is staunched and Keith’s fingers tingle with the after effects of the local anaesthetic, Kolivan binds the wound closed with what appears to be spray-on skin. There are several colour variants but none are any sort of human flesh tone, and Keith watches as his shoulder becomes the same approximate shade of purple as Kolivan’s tufted ears.

“You did very well in your Trial, Keith.”

“Thank you.”

“Many of us have seen our mates in the holograms. It is only natural after all, even if it feels embarrassing.”

“I’m not embarrassed by Shiro,” Keith retorts hotly.

Kolivan makes a soft huff, almost a whine, his ears flicking, and Keith _knows_ somehow that is it an apology without words.

“Generally, Galra do not expect to have their deepest fears about their mate broadcast publicly. You handled yourself well.”

“Oh…”

“He is a good choice.” Kolivan finishes the bandage over his shoulder, and nods to himself. “You will heal quickly. Come, let us return you to your mate.”

“Do you have a mate?” Keith asks as they make their way back from the medical bay towards the sounds and scents of food. His stomach rumbling interrupts him.

“Yes, though they are not currently here.” Kolivan blinks once, deliberately, as though examining an image on the inside of his eyelids. Keith can relate. “I eagerly await the day they are back with us once more.”

Kolivan stops at the wide entranceway to a larger part of the base Keith hasn’t seen before. Beyond, there are tables and seating areas, a row of food dispensers he really hopes are serving something _other_ than food goo, and what looks very much like an entertainment system set up along the far wall. Unsurprisingly, the holoscreen shows the two players in the middle of a combat game.

“I think you can make your way from here.” There is a message under the words, and Keith is surprised he can read it in Kolivan’s body language. The Leader of the Blade of Marmora is pleased and proud, and confident that Keith can use his many senses to seek out his mate.

Because mates are drawn to each other. Because Shiro is his. Because Keith isn’t entirely human.

Keith wonders how much other Galra body language he’s been reacting to without realising it.

He does indeed find Shiro without incident, just following the direction his feet pick without his conscious input, bypassing the communal area and heading toward a half open door along a nondescript corridor.

“Hey, Hotshot.”

“Keith…” Shiro smiles, familiar and soft, and Keith feels heat pooling in his gut. “Regris said we could rest and sleep here. There’s only one bed, and he seemed… confused when I expressed to him that we do not normally share a room.” He rolls his eyes, it’s endearing. “But I have food.”

Keith settles on the bed next to him, tucking his bare legs underneath himself now that he’s been left in nothing but a tunic. His Paladin armour is hung against the opposite wall, the helmet on the floor. Shiro hasn’t got any other clothes with him either. Keith grins, and takes the container of food. It is not food goo. He stabs it with his fork, and clinks the utensil with Shiro’s in an approximation of a toast.

“I don’t mind sharing, we’ll manage.”

They do indeed manage. Keith falls asleep a few scant inches from Shiro, nose full of cedarwood and the clean scent of his friend, sliding into a deep, dreamless space. It is the first time in years that he sleeps through the night.

*

It is late when Keith finally exits the training deck, freshly showered and with his shirt slung over his shoulders. Everyone else is certainly in bed already, and he knows Shiro retired fairly early after an exhausting meeting-turned-debate with Allura, Kolivan, and Coran about the shape of their future relationship with the Blade of Marmora. Keith stops in the common room to grab a water pouch, yawning as he heads for his room. He knows he won’t sleep long, just a couple of varga until he’ll wake and go over to Shiro’s room.

Despite being tired from training, his dick stirs at the prospect.

Shiro is his, his mate. He always was, and Keith knows after his conversation with Kolivan that he has been drawn to his chosen mate since they first met. He feels safe with Shiro – and despite being human, Shiro feels safe with him too. Keith sighs happily as he palms open the door to his room, thinking that maybe a tonight he might stay, might allow himself to wake holding Shiro. To curl close to Shiro’s back as his best friend wakes and tell him… everything.

 _Shiro, I love you._ Keith bites his lip, stepping into the dark room and letting the door swish silently closed behind him. He smiles. It would be great to say that out loud.

Keith feels a prickle of sensation, a ghost breath of warmth across the back of his neck, and then the room is tilting. His ankle is yanked out from under him, a heavy weight presses against his back, and Keith kicks out, hands failing as the half-finished water pouch goes flying, scrabbling for his knife.

“Not this time Spitfire,” a familiar voice growls in his ear

“Shiro!?”

“You think you’re free to just come and take whatever you want, don’t you?” Shiro’s weights bears down between his shoulder blades, and Keith bucks, squirming against the hold. Shiro laughs darkly. “That’s it. Struggle for me, pretty boy.”

“Wait- Shi-” Keith grits his teeth as his fingers reach the hilt of his blade. But he barely gets a grip on it before Shiro’s prosthetic hand wraps around his wrist and pulls it away with enough force to make his healing shoulder jolt with sharp pain. The knife goes skittering across the floor, vanishing under the bed. “Shiro! I can explain!”

“Explain?” Shiro is so close that his lips brush against Keith’s ear when he speaks, and Keith feels a tremor which is only half fear run down his spine. He struggles again, kicking back against Shiro’s larger body, and this time his blow lands.

Without thinking about his movements, Keith puts all his energy into launching himself away from Shiro, but his scramble doesn’t allow him to get very far. Shiro’s fist is tight in the back of his gym leggings, and the sound of the fabric and stitching tearing is very loud. Keith makes a sound which is something like a growl, but then Shiro’s hand is cupping his skull, pressing the side of his face into the floor, and Keith panics.

“You’re going to _explain_ why you’ve been breaking into my room and my bed, are you Spitfire?” Shiro’s voice is so low and dark, and it sends equals thrills of fear and pleasure jolting through his system. Keith bucks again, but he’s smart enough to know it won’t work. Shiro is caging him in, knees inside his thighs, applying pressure to his skull to pin him in position. It’s just the right side of painful for Keith not to want to fight too hard. “Going to come up with a good excuse for touching yourself while you watch me sleep? For fucking me and leaving me afterward?” Shiro leans lower, his teeth grazing over the back of Keith’s neck. “You played with your mess like a fucking contented _cat_ … which makes sense I suppose, now that we know you’re a space kitty too.”

“Shi-!” Keith can’t even finish the word, shame and arousal blocking his throat.

Shiro presses down on him with more force, the edges of Keith’s vision go blurry.

“And not _once_ did you think to get me off as well.”

“Wha-?”

“Well, not tonight Spitfire.”

Keith’s wrists are released, but the pressure on his skull only moves to the back of his neck, and Keith whines as his throat closes with the shock of it. Then Shiro is yanking down his ruined leggings and his underwear, and big fingers cup his arse just once before tapping at his hole. He yelps, hips jerking, and Shiro slides a thigh hard up against his taint.

“Not even polite enough to be prepped and ready for me. Tsk tsk. What are we going to do with you, _kitty_?”

“F-fuck. Shiro, wait-”

“I’ve waited plenty.” There is a wet noise, lip smacking, and then Keith jolts as Shiro spits with nerve-shaking accuracy on his hole. “I’m having what I’m owed, Spitfire.”

Shiro licks his fingers before he presses in, but it hurts, and Keith wishes he could bury his face into something softer than the floor in order to muffle his cries. The pain is a burning thing, stinging as Shiro sinks in and catches, the slide not wet enough to allow him entry. Keith bites his fist as Shiro spits again, a long string of drool dripping down his crack before being pushed in by his finger. Shiro makes a pleased grunt at how much easier it is this time – though to Keith the single digit still feels huge – and pulls out all the way before adding a second, thick finger.

Keith quakes, eyes screwed shut and panting against the hard floor of his room. This is not how he imagined his first time happening – on an ancient spacecraft, in the middle of an intergalactic war, having just found out he’s half alien – with his best friend pinning him to the floor by his neck. And yet, it is his best friend. Shiro, his mate. The person Keith loves and trusts most in the entire universe, and he wants Shiro to be happy.

The moment he thinks it, his body responds, and Shiro groans in pleasure as Keith opens up for him.

“That’s it Kitten, there’s my good boy. So eager now.” His fingers pull out with a lewd pop, an echo of a noise Keith is used to hearing in the dark. Something warm and blunt – Shiro’s cock – touches at his entrance, and Keith tenses.

“Fair’s fair, Spitfire. I’m not doing anything to you, that you’ve not already done to me.”

Keith shivers, quiet terror prickling up his spine. Because Shiro has been… awake? For how long? Long enough clearly to remember a fair few times when all Keith had done was come in and touch softly and quietly, touched without being messy. Fuck.

And then that time with the plug, did Shiro want him to… was he expecting Keith to show up and fuck him? The idea that Shiro planned everything has Keith dizzy. And then the head of Shiro’s cock is pressing in and splitting him open, and Keith’s hands grab useless at the smooth floor for something to hang onto because nothing has ever felt so overwhelming as this.

Shiro readjusts his grip on Keith, one hand wrapping tight to his hip, the other resting between his shoulder blades, and Keith knows he could probably put up enough fight to get away now, if he really wanted to. Shiro pulls out – almost all the way – and then sinks back in and Keith chokes on the air in his lungs.

Fuck.

“S-Shiro, I’m sorry. Ahhh!” Keith pants short and sharp through his nose, the scent of cedar and white musk like a blanket over him, reassuring even as sparks of pleasure and pain race each other for control of his body.

“Sorry for what?” Shiro says, lips next to his ear, voice shockingly level and measured, as though he is doing nothing more strenuous than talking a stroll in the park, not railing Keith into the floor with such force that he can barely breathe. “Sorry for fucking me whilst I slept, or for getting caught doing it?”

“Nnnngh...” Keith makes a choked noise. His ribs ache, his lungs burn, but with every stroke the weight of Shiro’s cock inside him seems to get more and more smooth, more natural. The slide feels wet now, supple, and Keith whines.

“You should know,” Shiro says in a conversational tone, “Regris is very talkative.”

 _What? What the fuck has Regris got to do with anythi-_ but Keith can’t even finish the thought in his head. Shiro shifts his knees and then he’s fucking against Keith’s prostate, and Keith really can’t focus on anything other than the pleasure building behind his eyelids and tightening in his balls.

“Let’s get one thing clear, _Spitfire_.” Shiro’s hand slides up from his spine into his hair, grabbing tight, tugging until Keith is forced to arch back obscenely, looking up at his friend with watering eyes. Keith can’t not look, and Shiro’s possessive smirk does something hot and delicious deep in his belly. “You’re as much mine to claim as I am yours. Got it?”

It’s phrased as a question, but Keith’s far too gone to answer him. Pleasure spirals through Keith’s core, burning bright like a supernova, obliterating all other sensations because _his mate wants him back_. He thinks he screams; he probably strains a muscle in his jaw, he _knows_ he comes so hard that he can’t breathe or see.

“Oh fuck-! _Oh Keith_ … you’re so beautiful and perfect and mine. Oh FUCK…”

And then Shiro is coming, fucking deep inside Keith as he stakes his claim and spills himself over and over into the tight clutch of Keith’s body. Keith feels hot all over, sweating like he’s been for a day long hike in the desert. Then the temperature mellows out into something soft and perfect, leaving him boneless and sated. Shiro is still seated within him, pushed in all the way up to the hilt, and Keith never wants him to leave.

“I love you.” He doesn’t actually choose to say it, but it’s the most important truth in his universe, and not saying it is harder than simply allowing it to spill from his lips.

“Oh… Keith.”

The soft, conciliatory tone makes Keith wish he’d swallowed his own tongue. He whines.

“Keith… Beautiful, Spitfire…” Shiro is stroking his hair, his neck. His touches are soft and grounding, so different from the pressure of before. It makes Keith want to cry again. “Of course, I love you. It’s always been you.”

Keith goes dizzy all over again as he absorbs the words. Everything in his vision is blurry, every touch is bright.

“Shi-.”

At some point, Shiro scoops him up and moves them to Keith’s little-used bed. Keith is vaguely aware of the motion and tries to cling on and be helpful. He shivers when Shiro wipes him down, whimpers as the rest of his clothes are removed, smiles as he’s enfolded in his mate’s arms once again. His face is pressed into Shiro’s chest, his nose full of the scent of his mate.

For a long time, there is only the soft noise of the castle around them. Which is odd, because Keith doesn’t usually notice it-

“Keith?” Shiro’s hand moves from his ribs to splay over his chest. “Keith? Are you purring?”

Keith swallows, breath and purr hitching, but Shiro puts a knuckle under his chin and tilts his face up, kissing him softly but with a determined thrust of his tongue. Keith opens for him, and it feels right and wonderful to slide their lips together, licking into Shiro’s mouth even as his own is summarily invaded.

“Don’t stop,” Shiro says, holding his face and gazing at him with soft eyes. “I like the purring.”

“Oh.”

The rumble in Keith’s chest kicks up in both tempo and volume, and Keith feels himself blush as Shiro’s smile becomes broad and proud. He should not still be able to blush in front of Shiro. Shiro strokes his cheek with one broad thumb, keeping Keith where he likes him as he slots their legs together and twitches a sheet over their bodies. When Shiro’s eyes begin to slide closed, Keith finds his hand seeking out the familiar space in the small of Shiro’s back, and freezes as he realises what he’s doing.

The purr dies in his throat.

“Shiro, I’m sor-”

A finger presses against his lips. Shiro still hasn’t opened his eyes.

“I didn’t ever stop you, did I?”

Keith swallows noisily. Shiro taps his chest meaningfully, then flicks sharply at Keith’s nipple.

“Answer me, Spitfire. Did I stop you?”

“No.”

“So don’t feel guilty. Sleep now, beautiful.”

Shiro yawns, prosthetic arm scooping Keith tighter against his chest. His bicep makes a surprisingly comfortable pillow. Keith lets himself slide his hand around to press into the hollow of Shiro’s spine and – just like always – he feels his friend relax into the mattress.

“Keith?”

Keith makes a noise to show he’s still awake.

“You can still wake me up – or not wake me if you think you’re stealthy enough – with your cock whenever you like. Either way.”

Keith blinks in surprise.

“Goodnight, Spitfire.”

Keith smiles, his eyelids heavy.

“Goodnight, mate.”

*

Shiro chews his lower lip as he makes his saving throw. The d20 rolls across the table, coming to a halt – with a long drawn out groan from everyone but Shiro – on a two. Shiro already fluffed his skill check for the attack, and now the party watch as their brave and foolish Paladin perishes yet again.

“Can’t I save, Shi- Jiro, again this time?” Keith demands, hating the way Shiro’s shoulders slump as he knocks over his lovingly rendered holographic miniature with a soft ‘oof’ of defeat. Honestly, he should be better at not dying by now.

“Sorry, Keith.” Coran doesn’t look in the least bit sorry as he twirls his moustache around one finger. “ThunderstormDarkness has only just had his turn, and that was a very poor throw made by our Paladin.”

Keith snorts, unhappy with the turn of the game’s events, and stands. He sees the slight panic from two of the other real-life Paladins and rolls his eyes.

“I’m not abandoning the game! I’m just gonna go get another drink, since it’s not like I can do anything anyway.” Keith uses Shiro’s shoulder as a pivot point, and lifts himself over the back of the couch and away from the game as Coran turns all his attention to Kolivan.

“And what will our Acrobat be doing to assist the party in defeating the Gygaxian dragon?”

“Ooh!” Hunk tugs excitedly on Kolivan’s sleeve, which is not something Keith was ever expecting to see happen. “If you can get this potion up near it’s face, we should be able to disarm it’s flame attacks!”

Kolivan nods in approval.

“Do I have enough movement points to get the potion from Block the Sorcerer _and_ do a flying jump onto… _that_ rock face near the dragon’s head?”

“If Hunk can make a successful throw roll. You’ll need to roll too, and remember to add your Freerunning modifier…”

Keith tunes out of the to and fro of the game whist he collects new drinks for himself and Shiro. Hunk’s latest upgrades to the food dispenser – using code borrowed from the Blade of Marmora and some pinched from the self-serve hatches on their last visit to the space mall – now allow it to synthesize something almost, but not quite entirely unlike, gatorade. In six flavours. Or colours. Keith’s not convinced the pale blue and the vivid pink actually have different tastes. He takes one of each anyway, and heads back to the game.

Shiro has moved. He’s still seated at the game table – despite not having a character in play – and has sprawled in such a way as to make it almost impossible for Keith to sit anywhere which isn’t his lap. Keith snorts, because his mate is quite probably the most obvious and shameless person Keith has ever met when it comes to getting what he wants. He reaches over Shiro’s shoulder, hips level with Shiro’s jaw, deposits their drinks on the edge of the game table. From across the hologram, the other Paladins stare with varying levels of disbelief and horror as Shiro grins, and pats his thigh with one hand. Keith settles easily into his lap.

“You’re not going to resurrect Jiro again?” Keith moves to fetch Shiro’s discarded character PADD, but Shiro places both hands firmly around his hips. The only thing disguising the distinct hardness of Shiro’s impressive dick is Keith’s arse.

“Nah.” Shiro’s chin comes to rest on his shoulder and Keith has to fight down the rising purr in his chest. “I’d rather offer moral support to my favourite barbarian.”

“Come Keith, it’s nearly your turn. ThunderstormDarkness needs your full attention.”

Keith redirects his attention back to the situation at hand. Kolivan’s acrobat has indeed managed to use Hunk’s potion and stop the dragon from burning them all to death, but it still has claws and fangs. Things aren’t going well for their talkative thief-assassin. Keith rolls his eyes as Coran continues to play the part of the dragon with slightly unnerving accuracy, and picks up the vibrantly pink drink to offer the straw to Shiro over his shoulder.

“Thanks, Beautiful.” Shiro’s fingers play above his abdomen, dipping under the hem of his t-shirt. It makes Keith’s breath come short, and Shiro kisses the side of his neck.

The blue Paladin looks like he’s swallowed his tongue, staring open mouthed as Coran instructs him to roll a saving throw to defend against an attack from the Gygaxian dragon. Keith arches an eyebrow.

“Lore Master, I roll for reckless attack.”

“Ohhh!”

“Yeah, go Keith!” Hunk’s bright smile brings most of the attention back to the game as Keith makes his roll and saves the thief-assassin from what was almost certain death.

“Good job, baby.”

Across the table, Keith’s apparent rival actually does swallow his tongue. He goes more purple than Kolivan.

“Wha-?”

“You’re welcome _Pike_ , pull your head out of your butt.”

“ThunderstornDarkness, be nice to your party members,” Kolivan admonishes.

Keith arches an eyebrow at him and fights back a grin of his own when he sees that the Blade Leader is only just managing to contain his laugh. Kolivan covers it well, unless you know what to look for, unless you’re Galra and the body language comes naturally. Keith settles back onto his mate’s chest with an audible purr.

“Did Keith just-?”

“Shiro is-?”

“What, the actual, fuck-?”

Apparently, none of the other Paladins want to actually finish their questions. Kolivan turns to Shiro and Keith, making a confused gesture toward the rest of Team Voltron.

“Are all humans this blind, or are these three especially dense?”

Keith snorts with laughter.

“Spitfire, be nice.”

“Sorry Shiro.” He’s not sorry at all, and Shiro knows that.

Keith finishes his turn by smacking the dragon so hard across the head that it loses several teeth, and even as Allura starts her turn, he’s busy planning what new weapon he might be able to craft them into. Not that he’ll ever admit to being so invested in a game of all things.

“Looks exhausting, I’m going to turn in.” Shiro says in his ear, hands at Keith’s hips, moving him off his lap and back onto the couch next to Kolivan. He squeezes gently. “No, you stay. Finish the session.”

Shiro bids goodnight to the others, then Keith catches his hand as he makes to leave. He strokes Shiro’s wrist, loving the thinness of his skin there and the heat of his pulse. It’s similar to the soft, sensitivity of his inner thighs, but so much more accessible.

“You want me to wake you later?”

“Nah.” Shiro’s eyes are dark with heat. “You know what I like, Spitfire.”

Keith stares openly at his mate’s arse as he leaves. Shiro’s backside is a thing of exquisite beauty.

Pidge breaks the silence over the table.

“Oh my god. Dude. What the fuck?”

“No,” Hunk groans in a horrified whisper, “I do not want to know.”

The remaining Paladin is making a variety of derogatory noises. Keith flicks Shiro’s discarded drinking straw across the table at him without looking.

Eventually he turns his attention back to his character PADD and smirks. He does know what Shiro likes – knows intimately – and he’s going to need to roll a really high stealth score if he wants to give it to him.

**Author's Note:**

> Big massive thanks to my editing team, for making this look all shiny and allowing me to talk their ears off about it for the past few months.
> 
> For the curious, and because I am incapable of not wasting hours on research which does not need doing, Shiro's cologne is [Diptyque Tam Dao](https://www.amazon.co.uk/Diptyque-Tam-Toilette-Vapo-Pack/dp/B004SFGJ12/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1K5BI7PC66MNU&dchild=1&keywords=dyptique+tam+dao&qid=1599338228&sprefix=dyptique+tam%2Cdrugstore%2C158&sr=8-1), and the not-glass butt plug Keith finds him wearing that night is [This One](https://www.amazon.co.uk/Glas-Over-Easy-Butt-Plug/dp/B00A2SOHDG/ref=rtpb_6/259-4425250-0021031?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_i=B00A2SOHDG&pd_rd_r=d0c74081-4d69-4107-9d49-6290fd09757b&pd_rd_w=KBuPt&pd_rd_wg=k6Ttx&pf_rd_p=f3b429bf-04f9-44c1-845e-fa18956e9ff0&pf_rd_r=2W0RWWA208G3503X3BBM&psc=1&refRID=2W0RWWA208G3503X3BBM). Because I just had to know.


End file.
